CHAPTER XXVII.

AGNES AND AGATHA.

“Oh, Heaven of bliss, when the heart overflows With the rapture a _mother_ only knows.” HENRY WARE.

Something less than a year had passed since the settlement of Mr. and Mrs. Withers in their new home. It was now early autumn. Let me introduce you into that large, beautiful, and fragrant dressing-room into which Mrs. Collins had conducted our Hagar upon the first night of her arrival. The room wears the same pure and elegant appearance that it presented nearly a year since—nothing is changed, except by the addition of one article of furniture—near the right hand front corner of the room stands a large rose-wood crib, with beautifully embroidered thin white muslin curtains drawn around it. Let us draw back the curtains and look within—upon a downy pillow, covered with the finest, smoothest lawn, repose two babes of a few weeks old; we can only see their beautiful heads and faces, for their tiny forms are lightly covered by the white silk eider down quilt. But look at their sleeping faces, and tell me who they resemble—their fine blue-black hair looks like floss silk—we may be sure that their eyes are black by the slender eye-brows traced like a black pencil curve, and by the long black lashes that repose upon the crimson cheeks; look at the noble foreheads, at the elegant features; look at the delicate crimson lips, with the spirited curve of the upper one. They are our Hagar’s children! would you not have recognised and claimed them if you had found them in the wilderness? They are our Hagar’s twins—duplicate miniatures of herself—and now her bedroom door opens and she comes in, pacing slowly in an India muslin wrapper, with her ringlets glittering down as we used to see them; she comes and pauses softly, bending over the infant sleepers. Now, whether it is the reflection of the white muslin curtains, together with her white dressing robe, or whether her many months sedentary in-door life, and her recent illness had bleached her into a blonde, is not known; but certainly she is many shades fairer, and much thinner than when we saw her last; her carnation cheek has faded to a pale rose tint, her eyes are not so wild and bright, they are larger, sadder; instead of a lightning glance, they have now an earnest gaze; and see while she stoops over them till the ends of her bright ringlets rest upon the counterpane, her bosom heaves, her cheek flushes, her lips glow and open, her eyes grow bright and brighter, and her soul, pouring from her countenance, bathes the sleepers in a libation of love and blessing. How earnest her eyes are! how devotional her whole air, as her lips move in silent heart-worship! Now the passage door opened, and Raymond enters, going up to his wife’s side; he stood contemplating the children in silence, until she took his hand, and drawing his arm around her waist, turned and buried her face passionately in his bosom, while her ringlets fell over his circling arms. Then raising her head, she pointed to the sleeping infants, and exclaimed with enthusiasm,

“Are they not beautiful, dearest?”

“Yes, love, yes—but you have asked me that question every few days for the last month, and I have always answered you in the same words; when they grow ugly, love, I will tell you.”

Hagar’s eyes were again turned on her children—her soul was again bathing them with love.

“Shall I not have to grow jealous of these little girls, who take up so much of your time and thoughts, love?”

“Jealous of these children? of these children who make me love you?” exclaimed Hagar, embracing him fervently. “Oh! my husband! so much more than ever I loved you before! they have deepened and widened my love. Ah, my own! my own Raymond—_try_ my love now, and see how much stronger its texture is—it will bear a great deal of pulling now, Raymond—ask me to give up anything _now_, Raymond, and see if I make a fuss about my pride and dignity—my pride! as if I could set up a separate establishment of pride—and my dignity, as if I could not trust it in your keeping, Raymond, dear Raymond!—as if I _could_ have a separate interest or a separate will—but you loved the unblessed maiden—will you not love more, a great deal more, the blessed mother—say, Raymond! say!” Her ardent soul, inspired by her passionate affections, was kindling into exalted enthusiasm, and glowing through all the features of her beautiful face; breaking through and bearing down all screens of reserve or pride. “Say, Raymond! say! oh, I love you so much now—I crave such a fulness of return—say, Raymond! say, how much more than the unblessed maiden do you love the doubly blessed mother?”

“My Hagar!” said he, softly, “try to be calm, love; moderate your enthusiasm, get used to your joy; these children have been with you long enough for that.”

“Ah! but every time I look at them again a new joy breaks up from the bottom of my heart—just as though they were newly given me. And then to think that there are _two_—so perfectly beautiful—_two!_ God not satisfied to give us _one_, gives us two. Oh, blessed be God! When I forget to thank, to worship Him, may these dear ones forget me. Two!” said she, panting, and taking breath, while her color came and went—“two love-angels!—and so perfectly beautiful—and so perfectly alike—and so loving! look, Raymond!” and she turned down the counterpane, “see, lay them as I will, in a few minutes they are sure to attract each other, to subside together, as it were, until shoulder touches shoulder and cheek meets cheek.” And then she placed their little hands together softly, without waking them, her lips parted and glowed over them an instant, she kissed them lightly and covered them again. “And oh, what a charge! God has given me two pure angels to guard from contamination! I must pray more; I must pray a great deal; I must get the Lord to take me into his confidence about these children, these cherubs. Oh, thank, dearest, thank the Lord for the gift of these two spotless angels, and pray, pray that we may be enabled to present them before his throne, pure as we received them from his hands.” Her face was inspired, was radiant with love, awe, and worship, as she continued, “I receive these babes as the deposit of a special trust from God; he has given me two of his own most beautiful children, shall I not try to be worthy of his confidence? Yes! yes! my two angels,” said she, bending over them again. “How beautiful are the works of his hands! Raymond, do but look how perfectly beautiful they are! These little black, silky heads; these fine brows and delicate features.”

“They are very much like _you_, love.”

“They are very much like each other.”

“They are duplicate copies. I cannot tell one from the other by the closest examination.”

“Can you not, indeed, now—oh ! it is easy—I never made a mistake about them; this is Agnes and this is Agatha, you know.” And then she began to point out some infinitesimal marks of distinction, that none but a mother’s eye could possibly have detected. “Now do you not see?”

“I do not, love; you will have to dress them differently.”

“Oh! never!”

“Or tie some badge upon the eldest, that I may know them apart,” smiled Raymond, shaking his head with all its golden waves.

“And you are so handsome, Raymond!” exclaimed she, clasping his form, and burying her face again in his bosom. “And, oh! are we not happy? are we not God-blessed—are we not so entirely united—can we have an interest or a wish apart now? Oh, dearest Raymond, through all the ages of eternity you and I—are we not one?”

“Dear love, be quiet, you talk so much,” said he, softly and smilingly lifting her head from his bosom.

“Talk! oh! how can I help it, dearest Raymond, when my God-given life and love grows too strong for suppression? I have seen the emotions of other women escape in quiet tears of joy, but I am not given to tears, you know; there is too much fire in my composition—oh! how can I help talking, Raymond? I _must_ speak or consume, Raymond! Does not the horse neigh for joy when he feels his strong life—and what volumes of music, filling earth and sky, the little bird throws from his tiny chest for joy; the flowers bloom for joy; the trees _wave_ for joy; the streams _run_ for joy; the cataract leaps over its rocky precipice with a _shout_ of joy; nay, the _earth_—the earth _whirls_ around the sun in a reel of joy; and shall I, shall I with all this God-given life, this love, this joy, this gladness, this glory, kindling, burning, and glowing, striking up from my bosom—shall I suppress it? turning back to cold silence and ingratitude? No, Father. No, angels. No, husband. No, children. You shall _hear_ how happy I am in the worship of joy!—in the worship of joy!”

You might see the fire of her ardent soul, as the flame glowed upon her lips, wavered over her crimson cheek, and shot in radiant glances from her eyes, as she spoke; now gazing with rapt inspiration on her children; now turning, and fervently embracing her husband, with a _pure_, though passionate love!

“You would make a good camp-meeting subject, love,” said he, smiling.

“Oh, Raymond, _now_ I understand the enthusiasm of camp-meetings; the ecstasy of conversion. Say they sometimes fall, or seem to fall, from grace, from bliss; why that is human, that is natural; the spring sometimes backslides into winter for days, yet we do not upon that account deny the presence of spring, or the approach of summer; both seasons, summer to the year, sanctification to the soul—with all impediments, all relapses and collapses; all weaknesses and falls; all wanderings and retrogradings—still advance—on! and up! under the guidance of Divinity.”

“You are strangely changed, Hagar—not in your individuality, but in your proportions—from the positive of wild to the superlative of wildest.”

“I am not wilder. Oh, Raymond! my life is deeper, higher, broader, fuller—for these children, for these messengers from Heaven. Let my heart sing its song of joy. Oh, Raymond! when we are _un_happy, even when we ourselves have brought the unhappiness upon us, the calmest of us cry out in tones of grief, bitterness, and reproach, ‘God! God!’ and no one complains of its extravagance! Shall we not, when we are blessed and happy, sing in tones of grateful rapture, ‘God! God!’”

“You must be quiet, love! be calm. I just looked in to bid you good morning before going out. Shall you be able to come down into the drawing-room this evening?”

“Yes,” replied Hagar, softly, and half abstractedly.

* * * * *

The lamps were lighted in the drawing-room. Hagar was seated at her piano, practising a piece of new music. She was attired with taste and elegance in a crimson satin, that the coolness of the evening rendered appropriate at this season. Her hair was gemmed and braided so that the long ringlets held away from her cheeks and brow fell behind. In the first months of their marriage it had been Raymond’s pleasure to have her elegantly attired to receive him in the evening, and of late, it had grown into a habit and a necessity to herself. She sat now awaiting him. Presently he entered softly, and she arose, sprung, and then, with a sudden thought, controlled her eagerness, and went quietly to meet him. When he had saluted her, and they were seated, she blushingly unrolled a piece of manuscript music, and said,

“See here, dear Raymond! I have got something here for you, something that you will like, something that you will glory in. I did not know until to-day that I could compose music; did not even suspect that I could; but to-day my soul has been so full of music, so bursting with music, that it has found expression! The hallelujahs of Christopher Smart, the very poet of worship, were resounding through my spirit ears; I wished to sing them, _had_ to sing them. I came down here, and seating myself before the piano, struck the keys, and in a fit of inspiration, set them to music—here is the music. I could not do it again; and now the music is infinitely inferior to the words. Oh! the words are sublime—a splendid pageant—a magnificent march of grand and gorgeous imagery, that nothing but an intellect inspired by love, and exalted by worship to a power of conception and expression that men call insanity, could have produced. They called _him_ mad! and shut him up in the narrow cell of a lunatic asylum, debarring him the use of books, pens, and ink; but even there the jubilant soul found expression. With a rusty nail upon the white-washed walls of his cell, he wrote his glorious ‘Song of David,’ worthy to be bound up with the psalms of David. It is from this song that I have taken out these words that I have set to music. Oh! how I wish some great master would set them. Hear my attempt, Raymond, and worship with me through the words.”

She went and seated herself at the piano. He followed and stood leaning over her chair. She played an inspiring prelude, and then her voice broke forth in sudden rapture that filled with volume as it soared, until the very atmosphere seemed inspired with life, became sentient and vocal, and shuddered with the burden of the grand harmony it bore!

Glorious the sun in mid-career; Glorious the assembled fires appear; Glorious the comet’s train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious the Almighty’s stretched-out arm; Glorious the enraptured main:

Glorious the Northern lights astream; Glorious the song when God’s the theme; Glorious the thunder’s roar; Glorious hosannas from the den; Glorious the catholic amen; Glorious the martyr’s gore:

Glorious, more glorious is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down, By meekness called thy son; Thou that stupendous truth believed, And now the matchless deed’s achieved, DETERMINED, DARED, and DONE.

The music shuddering, fell into silence. She remained rapt in ecstasy long after the last notes subsided, and until Raymond, laying his hand softly on her head, said,

“Hagar! this will not do, love; you excite yourself too much—the action is too high—your system is getting to be all blood—fever—fire.”

“Oh! is it not grand, this song? Does any psalm of David transcend it; does any hymn of Watts come up to it?”

“It is grand, sublime, stunning—and I do not like to be stunned, you know, love! Besides, I am afraid you are not very far from the state and fate of its author, wild Hagar! wild in your love, wild in your worship, and wild in your devotions, as once in your mad revels. Will you never grow tame? Never, I believe unless your heart be broken.”

“And must the poor heart be knocked on the head, before it can behave itself to please people? That was the song of boding ever sung to me by Sophie and by Emily, when I grew too happy to contain myself. Now, why must my heart be broken? What harm has it done that it must be broken? The Lord will not break it, I feel sure; nay, if my fellow creatures in their error break it, my Father will bind it up again. But now, then, dear Raymond, what does it all mean?”

“It means, Hagar, that by a happy exemption from illness, grief, or temptation, in fact from all the common miseries of human nature, you have grown arrogant in your joy, and hence your jubilant spirit.”

“_Have_ I been so exempted! ‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness;’ but I will not recall past human wrongs, in the midst of present Divine blessings.”

“Your past wrongs, like your present blessings, are greatly exaggerated by imagination, Hagar—but here is supper,” said he, arising and giving her his arm, just as the crimson curtains were noiselessly withdrawn from the arch, displaying the glittering service awaiting them.

This was the last day of Hagar’s Worship of Joy. The Baptism of Grief—the Worship of Sorrow—did she dream that such could be?