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.