“I have been here for half an hour. I passed right through the piazza, but you and Raymond were too deeply engaged in conversation to hear me. Perceiving your absorption, I would not interrupt you; I came in here, and borne down with fatigue, and stunned with despair (for, Hagar, the first words of your conversation betrayed the state of affairs between you and Raymond) I threw myself upon the sofa and there I lay until I heard you arise and enter the house—don’t be disturbed, Hagar, I only heard the few words as I passed through the piazza. I would not, you may be assured, have heard one word that I could have avoided hearing, and the words I heard were providential—they have been good for me, they have stunned, benumbed my senses into a sort of peace. Well, Hagar, when is it to come off?” “What, Gusty?” “You know—your marriage with Raymond!” But Hagar, wafting him a good night, fled up the stairs to bed. And Gusty, to avoid Raymond, whom he had not the power just now to meet in a friendly manner, Gusty having ascertained that Sophie was not visible, slunk out through the back way and disappeared. Days passed at Heath Hall, and Gusty was not seen. Raymond had written his letter of acceptance, had gone to Hagar’s eyrie in the fourth story, and leaning over the back of her chair, had read it to her. She had heard it with little visible emotion. “Now, Hagar, I am about to seal it. Tarquinius is mounted in the yard ready to take it to the post-office;—tell me, Hagar, shall I send it, or not?” “Just as you please.” “Then I please _not_ to send it on condition that you give me your hand.” “I cannot—yet I implore you to stay—do not leave us—I—I shall be very unhappy when you are gone.” “Marriage or flight, Hagar; those are my alternatives.” She said no more. He lingered. “Shall I send the letter, Hagar?” “As you please.” He took a wafer from her writing-desk, and sealing the letter, directed it; then going to the window, he beckoned Tarquinius. The boy dismounted, and coming into the house ascended the long flight of stairs, and in time entered the room. Raymond looked at Hagar as he slowly gave the letter into the hands of the boy. Hagar did not offer to interfere. Tarquinius left the room, and five minutes after she saw him ride out of the yard, letter in hand. Their eyes met then; there was sadness in the expression of both—the sadness of reproach upon Raymond’s face, the sadness of deprecation on Hagar’s. Indeed either of them could have wept, but that Raymond for his manhood, and Hagar for that early in her brave childhood she had made a sort of silent pledge of total abstinence from tears, refrained. He left the room very soon. Sophie entered it. She paced it in her soft, slow manner, and sinking down in one of the old leathern chairs by the window at which Hagar stood looking out upon the bay, she said—