CHAPTER XXVIII.
CLOUDS.
“Life treads on life, and heart on heart, We press too close in church and mart, To keep a dream or grave apart.” ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.
The next evening when Raymond returned home, he placed in the hands of his wife an open letter, addressed to herself in Sophie’s hand-writing. A year ago, Hagar would have fiercely resented this cool violation of her seal—now her soul was too large and joyous to cavil about her personal dignity, or even to think about it at all. Pressing and kissing the hand that brought her the letter, she sat down to read it. It was short. Our dear Sophie was no scribe. It ran thus:
“U.S. STORE SHIP RAINBOW, “October 13th, 18—.
“DEAREST HAGAR,—We, Augustus and myself, wish you and Raymond much joy of your young daughters. We gladly accept your affectionate invitation to visit you, and shall be with you on the first of November. Not, however, as you kindly insist upon our doing, to remain with you for any length of time. The fact is, that Captain Wilde is ordered to the Mediterranean; and as I have no babies to prevent me, I am going out with him: it is his wish, and _mine_. We cannot take Rosalia with us, because being still ‘afraid of the water,’ she refuses to go. Gusty has been ordered to the same service, and will sail of course at the same time. He will accompany us on our visit to you, as also of course will Rosalia. If you can keep Rosalia, we wish to leave her with you—if not, we shall be compelled to take the dear girl to the South, and place her in charge of her future mother-in-law, Emily Buncombe. In either case, Captain Wilde wishes to be held responsible for her board and all other expenses—as we have resolved to leave her small patrimony untouched, to accumulate at compound interest. Once more accept our heartfelt congratulations, and believe me always
“Your affectionate aunt, “SOPHIE WILDE.”
Hagar’s hands, with her letter, dropped upon her lap, and she fell into thought.
“You will write by the return mail, and accept the charge of your cousin, Hagar?”
“Y-es,” said she, “certainly”—but a shadow fell upon her brow.
He did not observe it, or appear to observe it, and continued, “And _when_ you write, Hagar, give them gently to understand that their hint concerning the payment of board was a little impertinent, to say the _least_, even if it were not, as I hope and wish to believe it _was_ not, a piece of intentional arrogance on the part of Captain Wilde.”
“I can tell them it was unnecessary. But I am sure no arrogance was meant or felt—how could they be arrogant towards _us_! If they spoke to us of payment, they made the mistake in the simple, straightforward spirit of their hearts, unsuspicious of the chance of giving offence; but,” said she, pondering, “I wonder when Rosalia and Gusty are to be married. Sophie has not given me the least idea of the time.”
“Rosalia is yet too young, not quite seventeen, I believe; and Gusty not yet twenty—_both_ are too young; three years from the time of their engagement, that is two years hence, was the period assigned for their marriage, was it not?”
“Yes,” said Hagar, still in thought.
“That is, if the young lovers remained in the same mind?”
“Yes,” said Hagar, and then, suddenly, she exclaimed, “You recollect these details better than I do; you have a good memory, Raymond.”
“I always plead guilty to the charge, love.”
Hagar fell deeper into thought, then sank into gloom. Was it the natural reaction of so much and such great excitement? Was it the rational sorrow at the thought of soon parting with Sophie, knowing her to be bound for a long and perilous sea voyage? Was it either or all these causes combined, that oppressed her heart and darkened her countenance?
Reader, it was none of these things. A dread of the winsome beauty’s approach, a dread, not reasonable enough to justify her in opposing the measure—a dread for which she blamed herself, yet a dread that she could not shake off—a dread that fell dark on her brow, and struck cold to her bosom. A deep, up-piercing instinct; will it rise through the stages of doubt, suspicion, to jealousy in all its phrensy? The sin sown and nurtured by the wrongs of her neglected infancy, her besetting sin and sorrow—not dead, but long coiled in serpent-torpor in the bottom of her heart now revives, now rears its head.
“Come, love, write your letter now before tea, so that it may go out in this evening’s mail,” were the words that aroused her from her abstraction, and she arose and left the room to do his bidding.
* * * * *
Immediately on rising the next morning, Hagar had, as usual, thrown on her dressing-gown and gone to the side of the crib to gaze upon her sleeping beauties. She bent over them in her morning beauty, with her black hair escaping from the little lace _coiffe de nuit_, and dropping in shining rings around her—she bent over them breathing her morning blessing, when her husband, having completed his toilet, came in and sank into an easy chair on the opposite side. He sat there looking at her very intently some minutes; at length he said,
“Hagar, you are pale this morning.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, and you lose flesh daily.”
“Do I?”
“Do you not _perceive_ that you do?”
“No, indeed, I never thought of it.”
“No, you never thought of it, mind and body are alike absorbed, entirely absorbed by one object—the nursing of your children; flesh and beauty, health and life are leaving you unnoted, these children are killing you.”
“These! these dear children, Raymond? Oh, do not bring such a charge against these sleeping innocents. They give me life and joy, the angels!”
“There, love! do not go off into raptures this morning, I do implore you. Yes, Hagar, they are killing you; you are very delicate, always were, and within the last few weeks you have lost flesh and color very rapidly; the nursing of these two children is too great a draught upon your strength, it will break down your health.”
“But, dear Raymond, you are mistaken. I am well and strong! thank God! _indeed_ I am. It is true that I am thin, I always _was_. I never was calm enough to get fat, but I do not think that want of flesh argues want of health _always_—in me I _know_ it does not. I have sound, unbroken health. I never had an ache or a pain in all my life—oh! except once,” she said, laughing and blushing—“nor even a feeling of languor. Fatigue after violent and long-continued exercise has only been a slight weariness soon agreeably lost in repose. God clothed my spirit in a good strong garment, and I have treated it well; though I have worn it every day, it is as fresh and new as a Maryland girl’s best Sunday frock.”
“They are killing you, nevertheless, Hagar, I say! Your features are growing sharp, your hands,” and he took her delicate hand in his own, “your hands are nearly transparent, amberlike, and indeed the knuckles are growing prominent—come! Hagar, dear, you are growing ugly as well as ill, and, Hagar, it will not do. There is a feverishness in your manner also that is not healthful. Your devotion to these children is destroying you, and it must be moderated.”
She looked at him with an expression of anxiety striking up through her brilliant eyes piercingly. He continued,
“And, Hagar, it must be arrested.”
“How? why? in what manner? in what degree? What _do_ you mean?”
“I mean, love, that you must procure a substitute.”
“A—_substitute_,” repeated she.
“Yes, love, that is to say you must put the children out to nurse.”
“Put them—put my two babies out to nurse—away from me,” faltered the young mother, growing very pale.
“Yes, love, it is not an unusual thing among ladies in this section of the country—ladies especially of delicate organization as yourself; and in this case of _two_ children, Hagar, it is too much for you, and must not be thought of. Do not look so distressed, dear, it will be better for _you_, and better for them. Mrs. Collins will find some healthy and reliable woman who will be willing to take charge of them at a reasonable compensation, and who can be required to bring them often to see you. She must attend to it to-day. Come, Hagar, do not look so dejected; in a day or two you will grow accustomed to it, and be contented with knowing that they are well.”
And he arose and was sauntering away. Now all the blood rushed back to her face, and starting up she caught his hand and drew him back to the side of the crib. Her bosom was heaving and setting, the color flashing in and out upon her cheek, but she controlled herself by a great effort, as, pointing to the children, she said,
“You do not love babies, Raymond; no, not even your _own_, not even these beautiful cherubs; alas! I have not _that_ to learn now! but, Raymond, _I_ love them as the tigress loves her young, and as the soul loves her angels, and soul from body could be severed with less of pain and less of regret than these children from my bosom. Raymond, I know your indomitable strength of will; alas! I have not _that_ to learn either! I know your persevering inflexibility of purpose, and the power of carrying your purpose into effect. I know that when you make a proposition, or express a wish, you virtually _give a command_! and one you mean to have obeyed. I know all this, and I know, Raymond, your power of torturing me, do I not? I know that this hour is opened a controversy between us in which _you_ will never yield, never to my _opposition_, never to my prayers; never, unless I can awaken your parental love. Oh! Raymond, where in your soul slumbers this parental love—_sleeps_ your parental love in such a death-like sleep that the innocence and beauty of these children cannot awaken it—look at your children, Raymond, and withdraw your proposition, your command rather!” pleaded Hagar, with clasped hands and straining eyes. “Do not separate this beautiful little family, this perfect little family that we four form.”
He composedly resumed his seat, looking quietly at her while she spoke; when she had ceased, he said,
“Hagar, I make you a proposition, give you what I think a sufficient reason, and you answer me with a torrent of sentimental rhapsody; now have you said all that you have to say in opposition to my wishes? Come, I await your reply.”
“‘Said all I have to say!’ Oh, I could talk a month, a year, until time exhausted the subject, if it would convince you.”
“But it will not, as you rightly guess, my love, for now what does it all amount to, after all that you may have to say, is said? The question simply resolves itself into this: whether you will comply with my wishes, or defy the consequences of a non-compliance.”
She dropped her head upon the side of the crib, and remained silent for some moments, and then, without raising it, she said,
“Raymond, please tell me _why_, give me some reason for your wish to have the children sent away?”
“Your health and beauty are decaying.”
“But they are not!—they are not! You are _utterly_ mistaken. God knows that you are!”
“You are feverish and excitable.”
“Not feverish—it is the overflowing exuberance of health and joy!”
“Come, love! contradict me in everything I say, of course. There is one thing, however, too harassingly plain to be covered; it is _this_—your suite of private apartments is converted into a nursery, of which you have constituted yourself chief nurse. I have borne with this for five or six weeks, Hagar, and now it is growing insufferable, and I must have a change, _will_ have a change, love! So reconcile yourself to the temporary loss of these children as well as you can. They are to be sent away for _their own_ sakes as well as for yours. _They_ must have a stout, hearty nurse, and _you_ must be relieved of their care; you must get flesh and beauty again.”
Oh, the immense power of resistance that was rising and throbbing as though it would break through Hagar’s chest! Yet she suppressed its violent outbreak; she wished now, above all things, to secure her place in her husband’s affections; she would have yielded anything on earth to his wishes now, except this; nor did she understand his apparent indifference to their children.
With a sudden impulse she threw herself in his arms, and amid kisses and caresses implored him to spare her the anguish of this trial. Smilingly he returned her caresses, smilingly he refused her prayer, and smilingly withdrew himself from her clasp, and was sauntering away, leaving her pale and trembling, when again she recalled him with a gesture. He returned.
“Where are you going now, Raymond?”
“To charge Mrs. Collins with this same business of procuring a nursing-place for the children.”
“Do not so misconceive me, Raymond; if I am now pale and weak, it is by a foretaste of all I know that I must suffer in opposing your wishes—for, Raymond, I _must_ oppose them—I have no choice; none! I cannot put these children from my bosom—_can_ not; you must know it.”
“We shall see, love!” said he, with a beautiful, but mocking smile, as he left her side.
“Ah, I know your power of torturing me, Raymond—know it too well—but I must brace myself to bear it in this instance.”
Half an hour after she met him at breakfast. He wore his usual air of elegant ease. He did not resume the conversation of the dressing-room, and when he saw that _she_ was about to speak of the subject, he arrested her by saying, emphatically,
“Hagar, love, I will not have one word of controversy with you upon _this_ or any other subject—I dislike conflict. You either will or will not comply with my wishes; without being subjected to any action in the matter yourself you will, in the course of the week, have an opportunity of submitting to, or rebelling against, my will in this matter.”
And Hagar was silenced. A few days passed, with no perceptible change in Raymond’s manner, and the subject was not again mentioned between them. Hagar’s secret uneasiness was perpetually betraying itself, and its expression continually repressed by the will of Raymond.
At length she grew to hope that this project was abandoned, when one day a respectable-looking woman presented herself at the door, inquiring for Mrs. Withers. She was shown up into Hagar’s dressing-room. She introduced herself as Mrs. Barnes, the person Mr. Withers had engaged to take the charge of the twins, if Mrs. Withers should approve her. Hagar received the woman with kindness, but told her that she had no intention of parting with her children now, or as long as her life and health held out. The woman assured her that she possessed, and could produce, the highest credentials of respectability, capacity, &c. Hagar assured her that her objection was not particular, but general; that she could never resign the children to the care of any one; that Mr. Withers’s too great care for her health had induced him to mention the plan to her, but that she had declined it. Mrs. Barnes seemed difficult to be convinced that Hagar’s refusal did not arise from personal objections to herself; but at last took a reluctant leave. With her knowledge of his character and disposition, Hagar dreaded the return of Raymond that evening. With the wish to please him, and to disarm his resentment, she arrayed herself charmingly, and had everything prepared agreeably to his tastes and wishes, and awaited him in the drawing-room as usual. He came in, smiling, with his usual graceful saunter, just as the servants brought in the tea; the curtains were up from the arch, so that the two rooms were thrown into one. He met her as usual, and they sat down at the table apparently with their usual cheerfulness and affection. _He_ seemed more than usually attentive to her wants. At last she said,
“I have seen the woman you sent me for a nurse.”
“Yes, love, I know it; she has reported to me her rejection.”
This was said in a tone of cheerful content that entirely dissipated Hagar’s anxiety; her spirits, rebounding, arose, and she was happy.
The servants were, however, in attendance, and further conversation on the subject ceased. Presently they arose from the table and passed into the drawing-room.
“Shall I give you some music?” said Hagar, taking up her guitar. “I have been practising one of those low, lulling strains that I know you like—shall I give it you?” and she sank into a velvet chair and began to tune the instrument.
“You shall give me nothing—not a song, not a caress, not a word, when we are alone, until you give me your _will_. If I have condescended to answer your questions at table, it was to prevent servants from talking.”
He was standing before her in his dazzling beauty, looking down upon her with an audacious assertion of invincible power of attraction and torture striking up through the brilliant softness of his eyes, hovering around the beautiful curves of his lips, and irradiating his whole countenance. Hagar turned away, veiling her eyes with her jewelled fingers, while she rested her head upon her hand. When she looked up again he was gone. He did not reappear that evening. It was the first evening they had spent apart. Unwilling to give him any new cause of offence she had remained in the drawing-room until their usual hour for retiring, when she at length sought her own chamber. He came up after a while with his usual gay and graceful nonchalance of manner, but without noticing her by word or look until she spoke to him; then he turned and flashed upon her a smile, beautiful even in its taunting scorn, that called the indignant blood in flames to her cheeks and brow, and she became silent. Thus days passed. He knew how to torture her. At table—at the time the embargo was taken off their conversation—ostensibly to deceive the servants, really to afford him an opportunity of tantalizing her by the fascination, he assumed his usual manner of affection. Thus weeks passed, until the time approached for the arrival of their visitors. One evening he came home and threw a letter in her lap; it was directed in the hand-writing of Sophie. _This_ seal was _not_ broken; she almost wished it had been; she opened it. It contained but a few lines from Sophie, informing her that their party would be at The Rialto the next morning. She held her letter out to her husband, but he, with a taunting smile and graceful gesture of the hand, declined her confidence. A sickening faintness came over her. An unwillingness, nay, a strong and growing repugnance to the idea of meeting any of her friends—for whom, indeed, she had never possessed any very strong affection—just at the time she was suffering mortal anguish by this estrangement from her husband—a dread of the approach of the fair and gentle girl—her rival from infancy—a fearful presentiment of falling still lower in his esteem by the side of the loving and love-winning Rosalia, these causes all conspired to tempt, to overpower her; she arose, and falling upon his shoulder, with her hair dropping all over him, with a bursting sob, exclaimed,
“Raymond! oh, _do_ make up with me! I suffer _so_ much! _so_ much from the loss of your love! If I could _weep_ and expend a portion of my grief—if I could _swoon_ and lose consciousness of it—_sleep_ and forget it—_die_ and leave it—_go mad_ and defy it—I should suffer less! I can do _neither_—since I am not soft and weak! I am strong and hard—and the strong live through and suffer tortures that the weak would _die_ under, and so escape! Yet the weak have all the sympathy, while the sufferings of the strong are not credited because not manifested. Raymond! oh, make up with me. I shall—not _die_—but suffer more than death if you do not! I am exiled—take me home to your bosom—to my home in your bosom again, Raymond!”
He supported her on his arm, and smiled down a flash of triumphant love into her face, lighting a smile in _her_ countenance, too! She raised her hand, passing it gently around his neck to the back of his golden head, and drew his face down to meet hers; but with a quick and graceful toss, waving all his curls, he released his head, and smilingly inquired,
“And so you lay down your arms, and strike your colors, my beautiful rebel? You subscribe to all required articles in my treaty of peace? In a word, you will place confidence in my ability to take care of you, and follow my advice in the management of our children?”
She did not reply. The smile faded from her countenance. He continued,
“You will place our children where they can receive better care than you can possibly bestow upon them.”
She opened her mouth to speak—he arrested her purpose by placing his hand softly and smilingly on her lips, as he whispered,
“Stop!—no more arguments—no more controversy—no more talk about health, strength, and ability—about maternal love and duty—_not one word_, dearest! I did not bring you here, my beauty, for debate and opposition, but for harmony, love, and joy. So, in one word, Hagar, do you yield or maintain your opposition?—yes, or no.”
“I cannot! cannot!” groaned Hagar.
He raised his arm, slowly stretching it out from the shoulder, while he turned away his head, and gently, but firmly and steadily repulsed her, pushing her quite away, saying, calmly, as she sank upon the sofa—
“Any overtures for a reconciliation, Hagar, must in future be prefaced by the unconditional surrender of this point.” And he leisurely sauntered from the room. Not one word was exchanged between them, from that moment until the next morning at the breakfast-table, when he said—“If you are not going to use the carriage, Hagar, I will send it to meet your relatives—it is nearly time for the morning boat to pass.”
“I do not want it,” said Hagar, and the brief conversation dropped.
He soon after left the house, merely mentioning as he went out, that he should be home to dinner at four. In half an hour from this the carriage was dispatched to the steamboat landing—at the same time that Hagar went into her room attended by Mrs. Collins, to dress her twins for exhibition to her expected relatives.
Following the bent of her delicate poetic fancy she would never dress them in anything but white, of the finest and softest material—nor ever place about them coral, amber, or gold, or any hard or heavy substance; and when she had dressed them, very lovely they looked with their little black, silky heads, and small features full of soft repose, as she laid them to sleep in the crib, so that they might wake up bright and beautiful when Sophie should arrive. But a deep-drawn sigh chased the smile from the young mother’s face, as she looked upon her treasures, writhing in the thought that the duties of the wife and mother should ever be supposed to conflict—that the happiness of the wife and mother should ever be placed in opposition.
Then Hagar arranged her own dress, and sighed again to observe by her mirror how haggard she was looking—knowing this to be the effect not of her maternal devotion, as Raymond insisted, but of wasting anxiety caused by his tantalizing alternate affection and coldness—by her nights without sleep, and days without appetite, and consequently without nourishment. She had even to gather away from her face her beautiful ringlets; their falling, long and black, each side of her pale thin face, increased its pallor by contrast, while they gave it a hatchetlike sharpness. She had just completed her unsatisfactory toilet, when the roll of carriage wheels on the gravel walk leading to the house, the ring of the street-door bell, and soon the hushed sound of several softly mingling voices in the hall, announced to her the arrival of her guests. She hurried down to receive them. To receive them! They received _her_ in their full affection rather! for soon as gliding down the broad staircase, she saw the group advancing in the amber-hued light of the hall, she felt herself caught to the soft bosom of Sophie, while the arms of Rosalia were folded around her.
“Run here, uncle! give us your hands,” exclaimed Gusty May, holding out both his hands to Captain Wilde, who caught them, and they laughingly formed a ring round the three women, clasping them all together in a close embrace. Sophie smilingly loosened the knot, dispersing the group; and Hagar giving her hand to Captain Wilde, and then to Gusty, opened the drawing-room door, showing them in—begging them to excuse her absence and amuse themselves, while she showed Sophie and Rosalia to their rooms. Then as she turned to attend them, Rose’s arms were around her again, and she said as they went up stairs,
“And so you have two babies, Hagar! dear Hagar! Show them to us quickly. I do want to see them so much. I shall love them so dearly. I have done nothing but embroider caps and frocks for them since you wrote to us about them; so glad I was to have two dear, dear baby-cousins to sew for. Now I have come to be your nursery maid, Hagar, dear Hagar; not a useless parlor-figure, but your little nursery maid.” So warbled the affectionate girl in her bird-like tones, while Hagar, won by her loving enthusiasm, turned and caressed her.
I said the house on each floor was divided by a broad central hall. The rooms on the right hand, first floor, were those of Hagar and Raymond, those on the left hand had been fitted up for the reception of their visitors. Hagar conducted them into their apartments; and when they had laid off their bonnets, brought them into her own room, to see the children. Their little nap was over, and the babies had waked up fresh and bright. Rose raised one, softly, tenderly, as though she were afraid of its falling to pieces even in her gentle hands; and Sophie took up the other. Rosalia went into her gentle love ecstasies over them, and even our serene Sophie was enthusiastic in her admiration of the children’s remarkable beauty.
“But I should never be able to know the one little black-haired darling from the other,” said Sophie.
And so said Rosalia.
“Put your finger on the cheek of Agnes—now upon the cheek of Agatha; don’t you perceive that Agnes has firmer muscle, and, therefore, I think a stronger constitution than her sister.”
“I am not sure that I can detect the difference,” said Sophie.
Rosalia declared that _she_ could, and that she should never make a mistake between the babies.
Raymond returned at four in the afternoon. He met his relatives with his habitual air of graceful gaiety. The evening passed in social festivity and cheerfulness. Captain Wilde and Mr. Withers were, or seemed very gay. Sophie and Rosalia serenely joyous. Gusty, boisterous. Hagar’s manner was restless and gloomy. Sophie at last perceived this, and lost her own cheerfulness; and soon after, as they were grouped around a table, examining some fine prints, Hagar felt her arm grasped tightly from behind, and Raymond’s voice in her ear, muttering low and quickly,
“You are making your well merited wretchedness apparent to Sophie—be more natural; for as God in Heaven hears me, if by word, look, or gesture you reveal your miseries, making me a subject of speculation to these people—you shall suffer for it in every nerve of your body to the last day of your life,” and he let go her arm.
Her cheek flushed, and her eye brightened with pleasure,—yes, with _pleasure_. To hear him break the death-like silence that even amidst general conversation reigned in her heart—to hear him speak to her alone, close to her ear, even _harsh_ words, seemed like a renewal of their confidential relations—seemed the more so because they _were_ harsh words, because they expressed a command at last with which she could comply—conveyed a threat which implied a position, a right not yet abandoned; it was more _husband_-like, and she nestled closer under his shoulder, and taking the hand, the very hand that had grasped her arm, she stole it behind her, around her waist, as she whispered,
“Dearest Raymond, how could you think that I would willingly betray uneasiness—have I been gloomy? I will be so no longer—you shall see—dear Raymond, smile on me—say _one_ gentle word to me; my heart has been starving—even the bitter bread was welcome—give me a sweet word, Raymond!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” were the sweet words granted to her prayer, as he withdrew his arm, and turned gaily to make a remark about a picture to Rosalia, fascinating the gentle girl’s attention by his brilliant smiles and glances. Hagar observed this, and her evil in ambush, her strong waylaying foe, began to give her trouble; nevertheless she struggled against its manifestation, and strove to assume cheerfulness, feeling that now was not the time to alienate him by offence. Her manner changed—flashing fitful lightnings of forced mirth across the dark gloom of her prevailing mood. Hagar was no actress—_this_ was worse than before! and soon she caught the eyes of Raymond fixed upon her—a dire menace striking out through their softness, and perceiving her failure, she grew alternately more gloomy and excited as the evening advanced—so that every one, even the simple-hearted Rosalia, noticed it, and turning her dove eyes on Raymond to read the explanation on his face, saw there the calmness of his superb brow, and set him down as the blameless and injured party.
The family party broke up at an early hour. The ladies left the room first, and Hagar, accompanied by Sophie, attended Rosalia to the chamber appropriated to her use, and after seeing the timid girl in bed, and promising that the housemaid should sleep on a pallet in the room with her, because she was afraid “to stay in the dark alone,” they passed out into the next room, the front room, which was Sophie’s chamber. Hagar setting the candle upon the dressing-table, was about to bid her good night, when Sophie, taking her hand, detained her, looked earnestly, steadily, in her haggard face, and passing her arm around her waist, drew her up in a close but sad embrace, and said,
“Hagar, my poor girl, what is the matter; are you ill in body or mind, or both?”
“I am well,” said Hagar, withdrawing herself from her arms.
“Yet I never saw you look so wretchedly, act so strangely in my life; what is the cause? _Do_ tell me, and let me see if I can aid you by sympathy or advice.”
“You can do me no good,” said Hagar, pausing in perplexity a moment, as Sophie still held her hand and gazed pleadingly in her anguished countenance, “and Sophie, do not, if you please, take any further notice of my looks; is it not natural, by the way, that I should look rather thin after my illness, and with the care of two infants?” and coldly returning Sophie’s embrace, she bade her good night and left the room. Several days passed in this manner.
The next Sabbath the family all went to church—all except Sophie, who stopped at home with the headache, Hagar, who stayed to keep her company, and Raymond, who remained for some purpose of his own. They were sitting in Hagar’s dressing-room, grouped near one of the front windows. The babies were awake; Sophie held Agnes, and Hagar kept the other, Agatha, whom she fancied to be the more delicate, on her lap. Hagar was looking very attentively at her child. It seemed to her that for days the children, especially this little one, had been declining in flesh; she was beginning to believe that the disturbance of her own health was reacting upon the children, and so maternal anxiety was added to her other causes of uneasiness.
At this moment, Raymond entered the room, and throwing himself into an easy chair, inquired after Sophie’s headache, and then looking at Hagar, who, sitting in the cross-light, looked ten degrees thinner and ghastlier than ever, he said—
“Sophie, will you look at your niece, and then at her children, and will you inform her of the fate to which she is dooming _them_, to say nothing of herself, by her obstinacy?”
Sophie’s large eyes started, dilated, and turned in apprehension from Raymond to Hagar, from Hagar to the children, and she remained silent from perplexity. Then Raymond put her calmly in possession of the disputed point between himself and Hagar—keeping Hagar silent, meanwhile, by an occasional menace piercing through his gentle eyes; at ending, he said—
“Now, ever since you have been here, Sophie, do you not perceive that all three have declined in health?”
“Yes,” said Sophie, “that is too palpable to be denied.”
Then turning to Hagar, she said,
“Your health, and consequently your children’s health, is suffering, my dear Hagar.”
“It is from _anxiety_,” began Hagar, when, meeting her husband’s eye, and recollecting herself, she ceased.
“From _whatever_ cause, dear Hagar,” said he, “your health _is_ sinking, and you will have at length to succumb to circumstances.”
A message now summoned Raymond from the room, and the two ladies were left alone.
“Yes, dear Hagar, for the children’s sake you will have to give them up.”
All mothers love their children, of course; Hagar’s love for her babies was fired with all the natural fierceness of her temperament; she would as soon have died as have had them severed from her. She answered,
“You do not know what you are talking about, Sophie; if you were a mother, you would know that between my heart and these children is an invisible cord, and the nearer I am to them, the more natural and comfortable it feels; the further I am off from them, the tighter and more painful becomes the tension. It is uneasiness one room off—anxiety one flight of stairs off—I know it would be agony one street off. In short, I cannot bear to be severed from them.”
“You need not be severed from them; get a nurse in the house.”
“But Raymond does not like that idea; he does not want the fuss of a nurse in the house; he wishes me to put them out.”
“Then Raymond is cruel and unnatural, and his plan is not to be thought of for a moment,” said Sophie; then she suddenly stopped, as though she regretted her hasty speech—a speech that Hagar immediately and indignantly took up, however.
“Sophie, it is not like you to be so very unjust and harsh. Raymond is _not_ cruel!—could not _become_ so, and you know it! If he does not love these children very tenderly yet, why he _will_ love them, when they are old enough to notice and respond to his love; _besides_, I never _did_ see a man who cared much about very _young_ children, as we do. No! you must do him justice, Sophie; Raymond has very delicate and sensitive nerves; he cannot bear roughness, discord, or any other jar of the nerves that more obtuse senses could brave. He is not like _me_, who have nerves and sinews strung for endurance rather than for enjoyment. He is an _epicurean_ by constitution and temperament, and I do not know that there is any vice in that!”
“No? Do you not think that when the indulgence and cultivation of these delicate and luxurious habits are made the study and object of life, to the neglect, and perchance to the positive violation of high duties, that it _is_ vice, and _may be_ crime; already you see it has made him forget not only his children’s welfare, but _your_ happiness.”
“It has _not_!” replied Hagar, indignantly; “how often must I tell you, Sophie, that he does not see how much he makes me suffer—at least that he cannot see a just reason for my suffering, because he is utterly blind in this—how _can_ he be expected to sympathize in a feeling in which he does not as yet participate? You must excuse my warmth, Sophie, when you exasperate me!”
Sophie smilingly caressed her, as she replied,
“Forgive! I sympathize with your warm partizanship, dear Hagar; besides, to put you in a good humor, I will say, I fully believe that half smothered in this down of effeminacy is a spirit of goodness that will never be wholly quenched, if _you_ knew how to get at it. Now _I_ can, always could, elicit this good spirit. You shall see.”
Hagar did not altogether like Sophie’s insinuation of possessing the ability to manage her husband; it seemed to impair the _prestige_ of dignity by which her love had surrounded him; nevertheless she permitted her to leave the room, Sophie saying as she left,
“I am his mamma, you know, Hagar! I have a right to interfere, especially since he has honored me with his confidence this morning; besides, he loves me dearly, and always did, ever since he knew me, and always will as long as we both live.”
This was true; from the first moment of their acquaintance, Sophie, by her serene temperament, disinterested affections, and quiet wisdom, had gained, not an ascendency over his mind exactly, but a modified influence in his heart. She sought him out, and going to work in her calm, matronly manner, arranged the difficulty.
The room occupied just now by herself and Captain Wilde was, after their departure, to be converted into a nursery, both upon account of its separation by the wide, central hall, from the apartments of Hagar and Raymond, and from its communication with the chamber of Rosalia, whose fear of sleeping alone, and whose love for the near neighborhood of the children and their nurse, combined to make the arrangement agreeable to her, as well as to others.
The visitors remained a week after this. Gusty May had kept so close to his little lady love, in view of the impending separation, as to give others very little opportunity of cultivating her friendship. And as Rosalia was strongly attracted to the babies, and as Gusty was as strongly attracted to Rosalia, much of their time was passed in Hagar’s dressing-room.
You should have seen them there in their innocent affection and familiarity, blending childlike frolic with droll, old-fashioned solicitude in their care of Hagar’s children. There Gusty would sit with Agnes across his knees, and a silk handkerchief spread over his arm, for fear the rougher broadcloth would irritate her cheek, chirruping to the infant, and calling himself “its Uncle Gusty;” and there Rosalia, with Agatha, whom she always would hold on her _own_ lap, because she persisted that this babe was the more delicate—yes! you _should_ have seen _her_, with her beautiful Virgin Mary face, brooding over the babe.
And Gusty again! what an old granny he _did_ make of himself! feeling the baby’s fingers and toes, to see if they were warm enough, or cool enough, &c., &c., &c. One day Gusty’s heart was filling with a jest that was bubbling up to the corners of his mouth and eye, and leaking out of every crevice of his countenance. Agnes had gone to sleep in his arms—at last as he laid her in the crib, and while he was covering her up, his joke overflowed as he looked at the serene little madonna before him.
“Don’t you wish these were _our_ babies, Rose?”
“Yes, I do _so_ wish they were our babies—God love them! they are so sweet,” said Rosalia, raising her large eyes to his and looking him straight through the head, with her vague azure gaze!
Up sprang Gusty stamping and dancing about the floor and swearing—no, exclaiming,
“You are a baby yourself! a _snow_ baby you are! or, a fool! or both! why don’t you get mad? why don’t you box my ears? will _nothing_ arouse you? do you know I have been saying something very impudent to you?”
“Have you?”
“Oh! you go to Guinea! ‘_have you_.’ Yes, I have! _You_ don’t love me, Rose—no, not a bit!”
“Yes, I do, Gusty; don’t wake the babies!”
“YOU DON’T,” thundered Gusty, “and I wouldn’t have you to save your life.” Then he came and fell into a chair, and looking at her wrathfully, said, “See here, Rose; I won’t have you! I’ll court the first pretty girl I come across. Why don’t you answer me? what do you say to that? I say I’ll court the first pretty girl I come across!”
“Will you?” said Rose, vaguely.
“Yes, I will! and I’ll _marry_ her!”
“Will you?”
“_Yes_, I will; and I know several pretty girls—you need not think I don’t! sweet girls! that would give their eyes for me! And one lives at Havana, and one at Rio, and one at Genoa, and one at Havre, and one at Marseilles, and one at Mahon, and one at Gibraltar, and one at Constantinople, besides several others! Come! Now! What do you think of that?”
“It is very natural they should all love you, Gusty, I am sure.”
“Humph! is it? Well, I am going to court and marry one of them before I come home! What do you think of _that_?”
“I think that will be very nice.”
“And you’ll have no objection?”
“Why no, dear Gusty, how should I?”
“And you’d be very well contented?”
“Yes, dear Gusty, if you were happy; I should be _so_ contented; and if you would move over to this country and come to see us very often—for, Gusty, I should weep if you should go away to live for ever!”
Up jumped Gusty again—
“Oh! my God! this—this—this—_creature_ will be the death of me!” then suddenly he dropped down upon the carpet by her side, dropped his face in her lap, spread up his arms over her shoulders, and sobbed, “oh! Rosalia—darling rose! I would not marry a _princess_ while you remained on earth! my pure angel! Oh, Rose, love me! love me! _please_ love me!”
“I _do_ love you, Gusty—as hard as ever I can!”
“You don’t—_don’t_—DON’T! you little fool, you don’t love me a bit better than you love old Cumbo!”
“Poor old Cumbo!”
“Ah, ha! there it is; you say that in the same key with which you would say ‘Poor young Gusty!’ if a cannon ball should carry off my head next month! Love me! no, that you don’t! Oh, Lord! oh, dear!” groaned Gusty, getting up and sinking into a chair, “oh, Lord! oh, dear!”
“Are you sick, Gusty?”
“Yes, I am!”
“Whereabouts, dear Gusty? shall I get you anything?”
“Sick at heart.”
“Oh, the heart-burn!”
“You shut up!” snapped Gusty, so loud as to wake both the babies, that immediately set up a squall of alarm.
Hagar came in, broke up the conversation, and quieted the children. Hagar was recovering her good looks, she was fully reconciled with her husband. So full, so complete was their reconciliation,—so happy was she in their renewed love, that her latent jealousy withdrew itself out of sight, away down in the deep caves of her spirit, until she nearly lost consciousness of its existence. Sophie had informed her that the marriage of Gusty and Rosalia would take place immediately after his return, and that circumstance gave her pleasure. And the last ashes were thrown upon the smouldering fire of her jealousy, by her observation of the full and free manifestations of mutual admiration and affection between Captain Wilde and Rosalia, and the loving sympathy of Sophie with both. Hagar would now have made a strenuous effort to cast out the devil from her soul, but that the wily demon withdrew itself into the deeps, until a more convenient season.
The period of their visit drew to a close. Gusty and Rosalia had a long parting talk the evening previous to their separation, and the usual amount of vows of eternal fidelity were exchanged. The next day, Sophie, Captain Wilde and Gusty took leave of their friends, embarked on board the steamboat, and in a few hours arrived at New York. In a week from their arrival at that city they sailed from its harbor for a cruise on the Mediterranean. The routine of the Rialto was resumed. The nursery was established upon the plan arranged by Sophie, and a woman engaged to take sole charge of the children. Rosalia wept a week for the loss of her friends, and then installed herself a self-constituted nursery governess in her chamber next the children. Everything went smoothly, harmoniously; Hagar’s serenity was restored—Rosalia’s tears dried—Raymond’s gaiety returned now, and everything “upon velvet.”
Reader, do but look at this family; the members of which were beautiful in their kind as the hand of God pleased to make them, each one, from the youthful father to the children. Raymond, with his elegant form, charming face, and graceful and fascinating manners, Hagar, with her brilliant beauty and wit, and Rosalia, with her tenderness, formed a group an artist or an angel would have loved to contemplate. Alas! that the angel sentinels could not prevent the passage of the evil spirit to their Eden! Satan, wishing to enter Paradise, took the form of a “stripling cherub,” and so deceived Uriel, the Archangel himself; deceived “Uriel, one of the seven,” that stood before the throne of God.