CHAPTER XLV.

AN EVENING AT HEATH HALL.

Forgive and forget! why the world would be lonely, The garden a wilderness left to deform, If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only, And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm. CHARLES SWAIN.

“I cannot think of sorrow now; and doubt If e’er I felt it—’tis so dazzled from My memory by this oblivious transport.” BYRON.

For three months previous to the events recorded in our last chapter, the gossips of Churchill’s Point and its environs were thrown into a state of feverish conjecture as to the meaning of the new doings at Heath Hall.

At first those who passed in sight of the old ruin, observed that a part of it had been pulled down, or had at last, as long predicted, _fallen_ down, and went on their way without giving the circumstance a second thought. Then, as the season advanced, those who were in the habit of shooting water fowl on the moor belonging to the estate, or drawing a net for fish upon its beach, passing very near the Hall, noticed workmen engaged in pulling down the building. Upon being questioned, these men replied in a foreign language unintelligible to the inquirers. This news being carried straight to the village post-office, the country store, the tavern, and other resorts of male gossips, arrested the discussion of agricultural, commercial, and political subjects for the space of an hour. Conveyed thence to the tea-tables at home, it did not tend to quiet the nerves or incline to sleep the ladies of Churchill’s Point. There could be no intercommunication among neighbors that evening; but early the next morning every one went “a-visiting.” The disappointment was, that everybody having gone abroad in search of everybody _else_, nobody was at home to receive anybody. They missed each other. There could be no comparing of notes that day. In their rising excitement, they tried it next day without much better success, and dodged about the remainder of the week like two persons getting out of each other’s way on the pavement, and missing their object. At church, on Sunday, however, the neighbors assembled. Mrs. Buncombe was beset with questions that she could not answer. Mrs. Buncombe had a nervous dread of being supposed to be implicated in anything that might be going on at Heath Hall; and begged her friends to recollect that the family of that estate were not her blood relations, though every one seemed to be under the illusion that such was the case. In very truth the character of Emily had sadly degenerated since the death of the good and wise old parson, and since her marriage with a weaker, if not a worse man. But Mrs. Gardiner Green gave an improvised verbal invitation to “the ladies” to meet at tea at her house on the next evening. Sewing circles and other useful and agreeable Yankee inventions, had not then, and have not yet, travelled down to Maryland and Virginia. The Southern States are far behind the “Far West” in this respect. But to Mrs. Gardiner Green’s tea-drinking! par parenthèse, Mrs. Gardiner Green _now_ calls her evening assemblies “re-unions,” “at homes.” The ladies began to drop in at an hour that would be considered too early for _dinner_ now a days. Emily Buncombe went, in mood as nearly approaching the irascible as her indifferent nature would permit. I am not about to tell you of a Maryland tea-party with the tea-equipage of chased silver, upon which the crest and initials of the English ancestry have been religiously or pretendingly engraved, or of the inconceivable amount of _substantial_ confectionery (none of your vaporish cakes and spiritual ices), all prepared under the eye of the mistress—no, nor of the baked canvas-back ducks, devilled crabs, fried oysters as large as the palm of your hand, or anything else, that made the ladies’ tea-drinking look like a public dinner given to a board of aldermen. I will not, because the bill of fare would run to the end of the chapter, and besides, it would make me hungry and I should have to stop to eat, and then I could not write. But I will _proceed_ to the _proceedings_ of the party. The “mysteries of Udolpho,” and Heath Hall were talked over, and it was decided that the one was as deep as the other. Emily Buncombe’s voice grew loud and sharp in disclaiming the least knowledge of the subject. Finally, as the weather was genial, it was agreed that the neighbors should get up a fishing festival upon the beach, and that being on the spot, they could take notes. Fish feasts, picnics, etc., at Heath Hall, were liberties that the neighborhood took without the slightest hesitation or compunction in the absence of the proprietor.

The last of the week was fixed for the projected festival, and upon the day appointed the company assembled. They passed, in going to the beach, immediately through the grounds inclosed around the Hall. So rapid had been the progress of the work, that they looked upon the once damp cellars, now no longer damp, but excavated, cleaned, paved, and built up—and the foundations of the house relaid anew. Some half-dozen foreign looking men were at work under the direction of one in authority, who seemed to be an experienced architect. To all inquiries these workmen replied in a torrent of civil but unintelligible jargon. Tarquinius Superbus issued from the building covered with plaster and sawdust, and seeing the company, hastened away, donned his Sunday clothes, and went down to the beach to render assistance to the visitors that had honored Heath Hall with their presence. He had always been accustomed to do this at the command of the ever-hospitable and courteous proprietors of the Hall. When Tarquinius appeared, bowing and smirking his “obedience” to the company assembled upon the beach, he presented a fine opportunity to those in “pursuit of knowledge under difficulties.”

He was inundated with inquiries. Tarquinius stood perplexed, bewildered. Tarquinius knew as little as any one on the ground; but it did not suit the self-conceit of Superbus to seem ignorant. Tarquinius mused—he thought of several lies to tell, but discarded one after the other as inadmissible. He seriously thought of telling the gaping listeners that “Mrs. Withers was drowned in the irruption of a whirlwind, and that Mr. Withers had married the daughter of the Pope of Rome, who had a gold mine for a dowager, and that they were coming to keep house at Heath Hall.” But he was afraid _this_ tale might be soon disproved, and substituted a more credible story—namely, that a large fortune had been left to Mr. Withers, and that Mr. and Mrs. Withers were about to return to Heath Hall, and had sent a staff of workmen under a German architect to rebuild the house. This, divested of its absurdly pompous mistakes of language, was about the amount of information gleaned by the picnickers. And this story in fine obtained credence, implicit credence. Everything confirmed it. Were not the workmen there? and was not the Hall being rebuilt in more than its pristine magnificence? With every circumstance that marked the progress of the redemption of the Heath and the rebuilding of the Hall, the esteem and respect of the neighbors for its proprietor increased. Every one began now to say what a sin it was to have slandered Hagar so—Hagar, too, who in her whole life had never been known to retail an item of scandal. This was not unnatural; calumny is more frequently the result of thoughtlessness than of malice. It was singular that each one now forgot that himself or herself had been most ingenious in his or her suspicions and explanations, and loudest in condemnation. There was a little “leaven of unrighteousness” in the “envy, hatred, and malice” of the few whose nature made them jealous of their friends’ prosperity; but upon the whole, the tide of popular feeling was setting in strongly in favor of the expected family at Heath Hall. The work progressed rapidly. At the end of three months you would not have recognised the place. From the foundation stones to the chimney summits, the Hall was entirely rebuilt of fine _red sandstone_, a beautiful dark, purplish red stone found in Maryland and Virginia. The walls around it were rebuilt, and the walks paved of the same material. The yards and gardens were cleared up, the trees trimmed, and the grass shaved down until it looked like velvet. The Heath was metamorphosed into a beautiful, clean, green sward, upon which children might roll and play with delight; the tangled thickets crowding here and there among the rolling hills were converted into beautiful groves; the muddy brooklets at their roots were changed into clear fountains or limpid springs, and seats were fixed there for the convenience of the weary or the contemplative passenger. At the Hall, the out-buildings were of the neatest and most convenient form, and every minutia of use or elegance received its due meed of attention. In a word, the ruin, the desolation, was redeemed, the wilderness reclaimed and “bloomed and blossomed like the rose.” People came from “far and near” to see the delightful change, and “Alto Rio,” the new name of the estate, cut in old English characters and half concealed in the oak foliage carved under the eaves of the house, became the synonyme for elegance and comfort through the whole neighborhood.

It was three months from the first appearance of the workmen to the morning upon which a beautiful little bark was discovered moored under the shadow of the promontory. Her snowy sails were reefed, and a few neatly dressed sailors were engaged in removing a portion of the cargo from her polished deck to the boat that was to carry it to the beach, where a cart and horse waited to transport it by a circuitous path to the Hall. The sailors seemed to be foreigners. A great part of the cargo appeared to consist of elegant furniture, statuary, pictures, and articles of virtue, for many of the boxes, for convenience, were opened upon the beach. All day the little crew and the assistants from the Hall were engaged in unloading the vessel and conveying its freight on shore, and in conveying and arranging furniture in the Hall. From the moment that the first sight of these proceedings had been caught, a crowd of all the idlers and gossips of Churchill’s Point began to gather on the brow of the cliff to watch the operations of those upon the beach below, and many “Oh’s” and “Lords!” were ejaculated with gaping wonder as one splendid article after another was revealed to their view by the knockings up of the boxes upon the beach. But they were watching, if perchance Mr. and Mrs. Withers, with their family, were to be seen, or if they had come, or when they were coming. They watched and waited in vain. There _was_ a lady down in the luxurious cabin of that little craft, in which she was as much at home as in her native halls, but this lady waited patiently an opportunity of landing quietly after the crowd of gapers and starers should have dispersed. Day declined. The cargo was all disembarked, and even carried away. The beach was clear—the clean looking sailors resting on their nice deck. All was silent, still. There was nothing more to be seen, and the loungers began to think of their suppers and the marvels they had to relate thereat, and to disperse.

The next morning at dawn, a little boat was brought around to the side of the vessel, and a lady assisted to descend into it. Then a maiden and three children were lowered one after the other into the skiff. Two sailors entered it, and taking the oars, rowed swiftly to the beach. The lady stepped upon the sand, the children dancing around her for joy to be released. Sending the youngest child, the little golden haired boy, before her to insure his safety, and leading the little dark-browed girls, the lady, followed by the maiden, began to ascend the side of the promontory by a flight of stone steps recently cut for the convenience of passengers. As the lady, with her children, reached the top of the flight of stairs, and stepped upon the highest point of the promontory, the first rays of the rising sun fell upon the head of Hagar like a blessing! a salutation! that her countenance flashed back in gratitude, in joy, as she bowed her head and knee, and reverently returned thanks.

Let no one sneer. It was the overflowing love and worship of a profound soul deeply grateful for _past sufferings_ as for present happiness. She arose and led the children on to the Hall.

What a different return was this to her landing in the stormy winter’s night more than two years before!

All that day was occupied in a delightful review of the house and the grounds. The arrangements seemed to give Hagar the utmost pleasure. All the next day was spent in her elegant library, and devoted to business, looking into the accounts of her workmen, paying their wages, and so on. She gave up the third day of her arrival to pleasure, or rather to the preparation and anticipation of it; and while the children were left in the care of the maiden who loved them, Hagar employed herself in writing some hundred cards of invitation to all her old neighbors of the three nearest counties, to a festival to be given at Heath Hall on the evening of that day week.

All these invitations were written in pale, blue ink, upon silver edged paper, and sealed with white wax by a seal of two doves. This is the Maryland fashion of announcing a marriage.

“Now, tell me, dear Rosalia; are you quite satisfied—happy?” inquired Hagar of the gentle girl, who had looked in upon her occupation a moment.

“Dearest Hagar! my saviour! I will call you my _sister_, when I dare! dearest Hagar! I have given myself to you, do with me as you please—make me your waiting maid—anything! I am in your hands—I am _yours_. I accept any destiny from you.”

Hagar looked steadily with her calm eyes at the child, then said,

“But, Rose—_Gusty_—do you not love him as he loves, and as he deserves to be loved?”

“Dearest Hagar, I love _you_, wish to love you _only_, to worship, to serve you: dearest Hagar, what can I do for you?”

“Be happy, Rose, and tell me about Gusty—do you not love him?”

“Oh, yes! yes! I always _did_, you know—Hagar—” the child paused, trembled, grew pale; then lowering her voice, whispered, “Hagar, stoop down; there is something I have been dying to say to you, and never found courage to say it—” she paused again; Hagar’s brow grew crimson, and,

“Do not say it then, Rose,” she murmured low.

“But I must, I must; it is a rankling thorn that must be plucked out,” said the girl, in a suffocating voice, paling and fainting.

Hagar laid down her pen, and drawing the child upon her lap, laid her head upon her bosom, and whispered, soothingly,

“There! now say what you wish, Rosalia; as though you spoke to your mother, or—”

“My guardian angel! You give me courage, dear Hagar! Well, listen! I loved—_everybody and everything_—indeed I did! the poor old negroes coming from their work, the blind old horses, and the crippled chickens, just as warmly as I loved you, beautiful Hagar! and Gusty, and Sophie—and—and—”

“Your brother Raymond.”

“Yes, I loved everybody and everything, because—because—I don’t know why.”

“You loved the poor, ugly, and wretched, because you _pitied_ them; and the beautiful and happy because you _admired_ them, my child!”

“May be so—I do not know—I only _love_. Well, I loved Gusty and Raymond _both_, and both _alike_—God knows I did! until—oh! Hagar, now listen—everybody seemed to forsake, or to hate me, and then I loved _him_ only—until—oh, now it comes—_now_ listen!”

The girl buried her burning face in Hagar’s bosom, and lost her voice. Hagar stooped and caressed her. Rosalia resumed, whispering very low,

“Until one day on the boat, very beautiful and bright he looked, and I threw myself in his arms, thinking no evil, only loving him dearly, and—_he kissed me_—it was not a _good_ kiss, like Captain Wilde’s and Sophie’s; it was a _dreadful_ kiss—it burned down through my cheek to the very centre of my spirit—it hurt me to the very heart—to the very quick of my soul! I got away and felt sick and guilty; felt changed and fallen. I was dizzy, reeling, and kept feeling at my cheek with my fingers, as if there was a scar there. I seemed to feel it. I was ill, and possessed with a mysterious fear and aversion of Raymond; yet when I saw my distance wounded him, I felt remorseful, and conquering my aversion, forced myself to keep near him. Wretched as I was, I could not bear to give him pain; and so, Hagar, I remained with him, and he kissed me so, again and again! and each kiss seemed to sink me lower and lower in a pit of infamy, until I could not bear the thought of ever facing any of my friends again. I was already fallen—lost in my own eyes. Oh! Hagar, listen! listen, my sister Hagar! I might have been insane, but I do not urge that in extenuation of my weakness. I was drawn in, and drawn in, like one in the whirl of a maelstrom—feeling the danger, the fatality—yet unable to stop myself—yet, Hagar, it was _all_ suffering—_all_, Hagar! _all_. I felt already fallen below redemption. I was in the power of a will stronger than my own—and, oh! worse than all, I was afraid to pray; afraid to touch the bible, for fear something dreadful would happen to me as a judgment. I felt so sinful, _so sinful_. I felt ill on the voyage out. And _then_ I thought of Mary Magdalen, and I said, ‘If God, the Father, is of too pure eyes to behold iniquity, Christ will surely pity and deliver me.’”

“But you should not have lost faith in God, dear Rosalia. You are the work of His hands, and you could not have fallen so low that the Father’s arm was not long enough to reach you, the Father’s hand strong enough to lift you, the Father’s love great enough to redeem you! Never, _never_ doubt it! The FATHER’S LOVE is the greatest reality of my experience. Oh, Rosalia! to doubt the love of God is to grieve the heart of God—believe it!”

“Well, I prayed—_I prayed!_—and then it came into my head to run away when I should get to Genoa—and even if I perished from want indeed, Hagar, I was _willing_ to perish! But then—now here is a strange thing. After taking this resolution to leave him secretly, I felt a remorse at the idea of deceiving him, and giving him pain, and I could not bear to look on his confiding face. I _knew_ I was doing right in leaving him, yet _felt_ as if I were doing wrong!—explain this to me, Hagar—was I crazy?”

“No, dear Rosalia; you were sane—_your_ love for him was pure and holy—_his_ passion for you was an illusion, an insanity. _Your_ love for him would have blessed and elevated him to heaven; his passion for you would have drawn you down to hell. Yours was divine love—his was fiendish passion. All powers of good and evil were striving in your bosom, poor Rosalia; but your angel saved you! But, Rose; do you still love your brother?”

“Oh yes! yes! how can I help it?”

“That is well, Rose—he is your only brother—he does not love you in any sort just now, I know; because sinful thoughts killed his love—but, Rose, _you_ must love him back to purity, to health and life, and _then_ he will love you rightly. This will be difficult at first, but it will grow more easy every day. And Gusty, Rose! that noble man. Just give your whole heart, soul, and life, up to him, and think the gift—not enough!”

“Ah, Hagar! Do I not esteem, reverence him for all you have told me of his goodness and greatness—only I am not worthy of him.”

“He thinks you are, Rose, and you must try not to disappoint him.”

“Well, now, dear Hagar, I have told you all—and you do not reproach me; alas! if you were to drive me away I could not complain.”

Hagar caressed her fondly but gravely, and remained silent, continuing to write, fold, and seal her cards. At length they were all finished, and she requested Rosalia to ring the bell. Tarquinius answered it. Hagar collected her cards into a packet, and giving them to Tarquinius, gave orders that he should saddle a horse and ride to deliver to their address as many as could be forwarded that day—and to resume his circuit with the morning, until all should be disposed of. Then rising and calling Rosalia to follow her, she went into her chamber and sat down with the maiden to work on a beautiful white satin dress.

Tarquinius Superbus mounted the most superb horse in the stable, and sat forth upon his mission. Never did a highland runner with the crois-taradh kindle a greater excitement among the rocks and glens of Scotland, than did Tarquinius with his missives. The first card was delivered at Mrs. Gardiner Green’s plantation. Mrs. Buncombe was taking tea with her (Emily had not called on Hagar since her arrival; but then, be it known, Hagar had given her no intimation of her return). The card was sent in and the messenger called in. He obeyed the summons, and stood, hat in hand, bowing and smiling, at the parlor door, where Mrs. Green and her guests sat at table.

“A wedding at Heath Hall—and who is to be married?” was the question addressed to him by three or four ladies in a breath.

Tarquinius did not know. He said he believed “that Mr. Withers had been killed in a duel with the King of Camshatka, and that Mrs. Withers was going to be married to the Prince of Patagonia;” and seeing several of the ladies for whom he had cards, present, Tarquinius, in a very unconventional manner, proceeded to deliver them, to save himself some miles of travel. Seriously doubting Tarquinius’ report and explanation of the mystery, the ladies all determined to accept the invitations to _le mariage inconnu_ to come off at Alto Rio.

The day of the festival arrived.

Rosalia was awakened from her morning’s dream by a soft kiss dropped on her forehead, and she raised her lids to see Hagar standing by her bedside, with brilliant eyes, arched brows, and smiling lips.

“Good morning, dear Rosalia! _Good_ morning! Rise! it is a glorious day—see! the sun is smiling a salutation through your windows.”

Rosalia, putting her two white arms up from the bed, lovingly drew down Hagar’s head and embraced her.

“Come,” said Hagar, assisting her to rise and leading her to a window. “Look forth! It is an auspicious morning! All nature smiles upon your bridal day.”

It was indeed a glad, jubilant morning! The sun had risen in cloudless splendor, tinting with a golden radiance the gauze-like vapor that rested as a veil over forest, heath, and Hall, river, cliff, and bay! The scene was full of freshness, light, and music!

“Oh! look and listen, Rosalia, woods and waters sing and the birds pause to hear! listen!”

“But, dearest Hagar,” said Rose, gazing forth upon the bay—“after all, suppose our friends do not come; a meeting appointed two months beforehand in a foreign country! So many things may have happened!”

“Look, Rosalia!” replied Hagar, holding a letter, “they were in Baltimore a week ago; this letter is from Gusty, it came late last night. I did not get it until this morning; it is an _avant-coureur_ of our party. They will be with us by this evening’s boat.”

Rosalia did not reply in words, but still happiness was beaming on her face.

“Listen again, Rosalia, my darling—Emily will be over this morning to breakfast with us. Shame kept _her_ and pride kept _me_ from making any advances towards a renewal of friendly intercourse—but this morning I arose in a better mood. I could not feel resentment (that, however, I _never_ felt), but I could not feel indifference towards the mother of my dear, noble Gusty, and the future mother-in-law of my Rosalia. So, love, I wrote her a kind letter, explaining the whole affair. I told her that Gusty would be here this evening to fulfil an appointment, and begged her to come over this morning. Could we cherish a cold feeling towards any one to-day, love! She wrote me a line back to say that she would come with pleasure, and to say—what do you think, Rosalia?—that she would have been to see us before—wished to come, but doubted if her visit would be welcome? Come! I sent Tarquin immediately back with the carriage to bring her over to breakfast, for you know, love, that Emily has no conveyance but her horse—I expect her every minute—so dress yourself quickly, Rose, for breakfast.”

Rosalia threw her arms around Hagar’s neck and thanked her. She was soon ready, and left her chamber accompanied by Hagar, and descended the stairs in time to see through the front door, Emily Buncombe alight from the carriage. Rosalia went timidly to meet her. Emily folded her to her bosom in a warm embrace, and then turned to receive Hagar’s offered hand. They went in to breakfast; but when Emily would have pushed a thousand questions as to Rosalia’s flight or abduction, and Hagar’s absence, the latter gravely replied that Rosalia had passed the whole of her time, from her landing at Genoa, first in the service of the Grand Duchess Maria Louisa, and afterwards with herself, and ended with the announcement that Rosalia was the sister of Raymond. In the stupor of astonishment into which this news threw Emily, she forgot to push her investigations about the flight any further; but made many inquiries concerning Rosalia’s newly discovered relationship. Hagar gave her all the information in her possession, and ended with announcing the fact, that Rosalia’s fortune, left to accumulate at compound interest as it had been, now amounted to the snug little sum of twenty-five thousand dollars; no plum, certainly, but still enough, taken with his income, to give Gusty a fair start in the world, at least to purchase that small estate, and build, ornament, and furnish that beautiful little home Emily was so anxious to secure for her son. These matters Hagar freely discussed with her, because she admitted that Emily had a personal interest in them. But when Mrs. Buncombe would have pried into her own private matters, Hagar gravely waived all interrogation, and Emily, in default of better information, was forced to take Tarquin’s account of matters and things—namely, the great fortune left to Mr. Withers in England. Notwithstanding this, the day was spent pleasantly, very pleasantly, in preparing for the evening; and Hagar, our Hagar! how can I describe her waiting for the evening! and how, as the hours passed, her brow became more and more arched and expanded, until it was open as the brow of hope! and how her steps became lighter and more light, until the spring of her little foot seemed to impel the earth upon its orbit!

Day declined. Twilight was falling cool and purple over the forest, heath, and bay, as a packet boat wended its way down the Chesapeake, drawing near to Churchill’s Point. A party of passengers were collected on the deck—a party consisting of Captain and Mrs. Wilde, Lieutenant May and Raymond Withers. They were conversing gaily. The boat neared Churchill’s Point. The village was nearly dark and deserted; doubling Churchill’s Point they came in sight of Alto Rio, the new Heath Hall. It was brilliantly illuminated from attic to cellar. The lights streamed from its many windows—streamed across its lawn, revealing scores of carriages filling up the space between it and the water’s edge,—and streamed across the bay, throwing a flood of light upon the spot where the boat at last anchored, close by the side of another beautiful little craft, the Compensation, moored under the promontory. The travellers landed, and taking their way up the new stone steps that led up the ascent of the promontory, proceeded on their way towards the house, struck with admiration and astonishment at the marvellous changes they everywhere witnessed. It is true that Raymond Withers and Gusty May knew perfectly well the source of this sudden wealth, and even Captain Wilde and Sophie, since Hagar’s letter to the latter, divined it. The emotions of Raymond Withers were soon all merged in one strong feeling—a heart-burning impatience to clasp Hagar to his bosom. He thought that were he about to meet her in poverty, ill health, and humiliation, he should embrace her with as _much_ affection and with _more_ self-respect—upon the whole, however, he was not anxious to have his disinterestedness submitted to this test. He had, before leaving the boat, bestowed the utmost attention upon his toilet, and his dress was now the very ideal of taste and elegance, as his person was of manly beauty. In the grand diapason of the reconciliation was trilling this one little absurd note.

We will precede the party to the Hall.

The lights from the Hall streamed from every window over the scene; the grounds in front of the Hall were blocked up with carriages. The verandas running around the Hall were crowded with coachmen and footmen, the attendants of the guests; the lower rooms of the Hall superbly furnished, beautifully ornamented, and brilliantly lighted, were filled with splendidly dressed company. An upper chamber of the house was occupied by three ladies; one, a young maiden, sat upon a dressing stool in front of a full length mirror, and two stood, one on each side, adorning her for the altar. Emily Buncombe looked very fine—in a straw-colored satin, with a pretty lace cap, trimmed with white snowdrops; our Hagar looked the princess that she was, in her delicate white lace, over a rich white satin, with her brilliant black ringlets collected at the back of her head by a diamond-set comb, and dropping gracefully upon her crimson cheeks, undulating neck and bosom. Diamond bracelets flashed upon her rounded arms, and a diamond necklace encircled her throat. It was Hagar who looked like a royal bride. But she was decking a bride. Not a jewel would Hagar permit to desecrate the maiden’s beauty. A chaste and simple dress of white silk, trimmed with narrow lace, leaving the full, rounded, and snowy neck and arms bare, and a very slight wreath of young orange blossom buds crowning her golden ringlets, completed her beautifully simple toilet.

Two young girls from the neighborhood—young girls of twelve years old, selected that evening from the company below, were waiting to attend her. Her toilet was only just completed when a rap was heard at the chamber-door, and Hagar’s housekeeper entering said—

“Mrs. Withers—Captain Wilde, Lieutenant May, Mr. Withers, and their party, have arrived.”

Hagar had supposed that she would be prepared for this meeting, anticipated for two months past, and momentarily expected now. She had thought to have received him there, in her beauty, glory, and pride, with her regal self-possession,—but when the words “Mr. Withers has arrived” fell on her ear, her heart _sank down—stopped—the hand of death seemed on her_! Intense frost burns like fire in contact—extreme joy is so like pain as to be undistinguishable.

“Ask him to come up,” said Hagar in a dying voice, as she stood leaning upon the shoulder of Rosalia for support—Rosalia still sitting on her dressing stool.

Hagar felt that life and death were striving in her bosom—nay, she thought that death had come—and only prayed that her last breath might flow past Raymond’s cheek and hair, with her head upon his breast—as she leaned more heavily upon Rosalia, until her long black ringlets overswept and half concealed her form. Now she thought to receive him there! dying there! But lo! a light, quick footstep is on the stairs!—each footfall strikes a chord that vibrates to the centre of her heart! shocking all her nerves into electric life!—she started—sprang—color flowed richly back to her cheeks—light radiantly to her eyes! Like lightning she flashed from the room out into the dark passage.

He was coming up the stairs, wondering how he should present himself before her, when, as he reached the landing, he saw a brilliant white-clad spirit gleam out across the darkness, and the next instant the angel was in his arms—_her_ arms about his neck—pressed to his bosom—her heart throbbing warmly, humanly against his own.

No word was spoken yet. They had met unpremeditatedly—in silence and darkness—in that _pure_, though passionate embrace!

What to them was all the wrong and woe of the last two dreadful years? Forgotten! as it had ever been. A dark background, only throwing out into stronger light the rapture of the present meeting—_for an instant_—but ah! when recollection came to one! He stooped over her and whispered—

“Hagar! I have not one word to say for myself! not one excuse to offer for my weakness! not one syllable to breathe in palliation of my fault! Hagar, I am bankrupt!”

But she drew him to a seat, for emotion was overpowering her, dropped upon his lap, her arms around his neck, her head upon his shoulder, her ringlets sweeping over him, and wept! wept!—she, from whose proud eyes of fiery light, bitterest _grief_ had never wrung one tear—_wept!_—as though the fountains of her life were broken up and gushing through her eyes! For _joy_, reader?—Not altogether; was not her king—_her_ king, discrowned before her? and though she loved him! loved him! as only high hearts like hers _can_ love—no _worship_ mingled with that love!

But a bride was waiting to be led before the bishop. Rising, Hagar took his hand, and conducted him silently into the room, led him silently to Rosalia’s side, and laying her hand upon her shoulder, said softly,

“Turn and greet your brother, Rosalia!”

She arose, blushing, trembling, and Raymond Withers opening his arms, folded in one embrace his wife and sister to his bosom.

Ten minutes after this a bridal party stood up in the middle of the gorgeous drawing-rooms below. Bishop Otterback performed the ceremony. Raymond Withers gave away the bride. Sophie Wilde removed the veil from the maiden’s head at the conclusion of the rites.

The wedding was the most splendid festival ever given in —— county. Many of the guests from a distance remained all night. It was near the dawn of day before the visitors, those who left the house at all, dispersed, and those who remained had retired to rest.

The sun was rising when Hagar, followed by her husband, entered the nursery. She led him to one little bed where the twin girls were still sleeping in loveliness. He stooped and kissed each brow without waking either. And then she drew him off to a crib, where slumbered the boy he had never seen. She stepped ahead of him, and lifting this child up from his morning sleep, stood him upon the floor in the sunlight to waken up in his beauty! And how sparklingly beautiful he looked with his pink feet on the rich carpet, and his golden curls falling in rippling, glittering disorder about his temples and throat, and flashing in the sunlight, as he stood there waking up, with his graceful head stooped sideways like a bird’s looking archly, shily, and half loving, half afraid at the handsome stranger standing near his mother. Raymond stooped and lifted him in his arms, and then the child, with a shout of clear, sweet laughter, recognised the father he had never seen before, expressing his delight in these words,

“Oh! _you_ are beauty—like mamma!”

With infants _love_ and _beauty_ are synonyms—everything they love is beautiful, and everything that is beautiful they love.

“And what is his name, mine own Hagar?”

“_Raymond!_ but for distinction sake, as well as that because he is a sunbeam, we will call him Ray!”

The little girls now waking, and hearing their mother’s voice, arose and ran to greet her, and they too shared the caresses bestowed upon their infant brother.

The beautiful family were all now united in love and joy.

* * * * *

Later in the day, Hagar gave her husband an explanation that the reader must also have—she said,

“You have not asked me, Raymond, about the foreigners around us; yet you must have wondered why I employed a dozen foreigners rather than my own country people—I will tell you in a very few words. All the money we possess was made in _Europe_, from ministering to the luxury of the wealthy aristocrats. But I saw numerous wretchedly poor and suffering peasants—many of them I found upon inquiry to be excellent artisans and agriculturists, who would work if they could obtain employment, and I said to myself, I am about to spend the money I have made here in rebuilding a ruin, and in reclaiming a wilderness. It will be a great labor, and it will only be justice to give this work to a few of the people among whom I made this money. I thought that if I could bring a dozen workmen over to this country, and give them employment for a while as a start, it would be but right. I had a little vessel built out there—I called it the ‘Compensation.’ I got a skipper and one or two experienced seamen—the rest of the crew consisted of the artisan emigrants I was to bring out. I paid them some money in advance to leave with their families, until they got settled in this country, and rich enough to send for them. I had previously sent out half-a-dozen mechanics under an architect, to rebuild the Hall; and in three months from the day of their sailing, and only one week ago, I arrived with my emigrant agriculturists. They are at work. I know this was right, Raymond, and I hope you think so.”

“My noble Hagar!”

* * * * *

Alto Rio is now the most fertile and productive plantation in Maryland. The Hall is the seat of elegant hospitality. Hagar is now in the meridian of her life, and of her well preserved beauty. Her daughters, Agnes and Agatha, are grown up; they are called the twin beauties; her son is a noble boy, he is a cadet at ——; they have no other children.

Not very far from Alto Rio is another handsome villa, it is the residence of Captain Augustus W. May, U. S. N., and is presided over by a lady who would be thought surpassingly beautiful and elegant in any neighborhood not adorned by the presence of Hagar Withers. They have a numerous family of girls and boys.

Sophie is again in the Mediterranean, with Captain Wilde. They have no family, and assert that they are contented that such is their lot, and I thoroughly believe them, for they love each other devotedly, and are never separated, Sophie going with him on all his voyages.

Our old friend, Blanche Rogers—have you forgotten her?—is now at last the Right Rev. Mrs. Otterback; she got the bishop at last. It was at Gusty and Rosalia May’s wedding that the final blow that brought him to her feet was struck.

Emily Buncombe is still mistress of Grove Cottage, and Mr. Buncombe is still pastor of the Church of the Ascension.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Page Changed from Changed to

6 Tidarsi è bene, e non fidarse Fidarsi è bene, e non fidarse e meglio e meglio

19 But Sophie only gazed at him But Sophie only gazed at him with a started with a startled

45 found the gentle and timorous found the gentle and timorous child still shrink child still shrank

55 or rather became of her or rather because of her reluctance, and reluctance, and

73 Raymond, standing at the Raymond, were standing at the window that overlooked window that overlooked

79 their slovenly habits of their slovenly habits of cultivatic.—do you not cultivation—do you not

84 brother; yet never did only brother; yet never did any child returning to child returning to

97 on her sheek, leaving her on her cheek, leaving her contracted brow and contracted brow and

139 Nessum maggior dolore, Nessun maggior dolore,

151 idea repulsed, revolted idea repulsed, revolted him—he would nothing him—he would do nothing

152 does find the means? I know does she find the means? I that she travels know that she travels

163 and yon see the upshot! Why, and you see the upshot! Why, I’m reinstated I’m reinstated

unchanged protegé protegé

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Used numbers for footnotes. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.