Meanwhile between Henry Warner and Maggie there was a far more affectionate farewell, he whispering to her of a time not far distant when he would claim her as his own, and, she should go with him. He would write to her every week, he said, and Rose should write too. He would see Rose in a few days, and tell her of his engagement, which he knew would please her.
"Let me send her a line," said Maggie, and on a tiny sheet of paper she wrote: "Dear Rose: Are you willing I should be your sister Maggie?"
Half an hour later, and Hagar Warren, coming through the garden gate, looked after the carriage which bore the gentlemen to the depot, muttering to herself: "I'm glad the high bucks have gone. A good riddance to them both."
In her disorderly chamber, too, Mrs. Jeffrey hobbled on one foot to the window, where, with a deep sigh of relief, she sent after the young men a not very complimentary adieu, which was echoed in part by the servants below, while Theo, on the piazza, exclaimed against the lonesome old house, which was never so lonesome before, and Maggie seated herself upon the stairs and cried!
CHAPTER IX.
ROSE WARNER.
Nestled among the tall old trees which skirt the borders of Leominster village was the bird's-nest of a cottage which Rose Warner called her home, and which, with its wealth of roses, its trailing vines and flowering shrubs, seemed fitted for the abode of one like her. Slight as a child twelve summers old, and fair as the white pond lily when first to the morning sun it unfolds its delicate petals, she seemed too frail for earth; and both her aunt and he whom she called brother watched carefully lest the cold north wind should blow too rudely on the golden curls which shaded her childish brow. Very, very beautiful was little Rose, and yet few ever looked upon her without a feeling of sadness; for in the deep blue of her eyes there was a mournful, dreamy look, as if the shadow of some great sorrow were resting thus early upon her.
And Rose Warner had a sorrow, too—a grief which none save one had ever suspected. To him it had come with the words, "I cannot be your wife for I love another; one who will never know how dear he is to me."
The words were involuntarily spoken, and George Douglas, looking down upon her, guessed rightly that he who would never know how much he was beloved was Henry Warner. To her the knowledge that Henry was something dearer than a brother had come slowly, filling her heart with pain, for she well knew that whether he clasped her to his bosom, as he often did, or pressed his lips upon her brow, he thought of her only as a brother thinks of a beautiful and idolized sister. It had heretofore been some consolation to know that his affections were untrammeled with thoughts of another, that she alone was the object of his love, and hope had sometimes faintly whispered of what perchance might be; but from that dream she was waking now, and her face grew whiter still as there came to her from time to time letters fraught with praises of Margaret Miller; and if in Rose Warner's nature there had been a particle of bitterness, it would have been called forth toward one who, she foresaw, would be her rival. But Rose knew no malice, and she felt that she would sooner die than do aught to mar the happiness of Maggie Miller.
For nearly two weeks she had not heard from Henry, and she was beginning to feel very anxious, when one morning, two or three days succeeding the memorable Hillsdale celebration, as she sat in a small arbor so thickly overgrown with the Michigan rose as to render her invisible at a little distance, she was startled by hearing him call her name, as he came in quest of her down the garden walk. The next moment he held her in his arms, kissing her forehead, her lips, her cheek; then holding her off, he looked to see if there had been in her aught of change since last they met.
"You are paler than you were, Rose darling," he said, "and your eyes look as if they had of late been used to tears. What is it, dearest? What troubles you?"
Rose could not answer immediately, for his sudden coming had taken away her breath, and as he saw a faint blush stealing over her face he continued, "Can it be my little sister has been falling in love during my absence?"
Never before had he spoken to her thus; but a change had come over him, his heart was full of a beautiful image, and fancying Rose might have followed his example he asked her the question he did, without, however, expecting or receiving a definite answer.
"I am so lonely, Henry, when you are gone and do not write to me!" she said; and in the tones of her voice there was a slight reproof, which Henry felt keenly.
He had been so engrossed with Maggie Miller and the free joyous life he led in the Hillsdale woods, that for a time he had neglected Rose, who, in his absence, depended so much on his letters for comfort.
"I have been very selfish, I know," he said; "but I was so happy, that for a time I forgot everything save Maggie Miller."
An involuntary shudder ran through Rose's slender form; but, conquering her emotion, she answered calmly: "What of this Maggie Miller? Tell me of her, will you?"
Winding his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to his side, Henry Warner rested her head upon his bosom, where it had often lain, and, smoothing her golden curls, told her of Maggie Miller, of her queenly beauty, of her dashing, independent spirit, her frank, ingenuous manner, her kindness of heart; and last of all, bending very low, lest the vine leaves and the fair blossoms of the rose should hear, he told her of his love; and Rose, the fairest flower of all which bloomed around that bower, clasped her hand upon her heart, lest he should see its wild throbbings, and, forcing back the tears which moistened her long lashes, listened to the knell of all her hopes. Henceforth her love for him must be an idle mockery, and the time would come when to love him as she loved him then would be a sin—a wrong to herself, a wrong to him, and a wrong to Maggie Miller.
"You are surely not asleep," he said at last, as she made him no reply, and bending forward he saw the tear-drops resting on her cheek. "Not asleep, but weeping!" he exclaimed. "What is it, darling? What troubles you?" And lifting up her head, Rose Warner answered, "I was thinking how this new love of yours would take you from me, and I should be alone."
"No, not alone," he said, wiping her tears away. "Maggie and I have arranged that matter. You are to live with us, and instead of losing me you are to gain another—a sister, Rose. You have often wished you had one, and you could surely find none worthier than Maggie Miller."
"Will she watch over you, Henry? Will she be to you what your wife should be?" asked Rose; and Henry answered: "She is not at all like you, my little sister. She relies implicitly upon my judgment; so you see I shall need your blessed influence all the same, to make me what your brother and Maggie's husband ought to be."
"Did she send me no message?" asked Rose; and taking out the tiny note, Henry passed it to her, just as his aunt called to him from the house, whither he went, leaving her alone.
There were blinding tears in Rose's eyes as she read the few lines, and involuntarily she pressed her lips to the paper which she knew had been touched by Maggie Miller's hands.
"My sister—sister Maggie," she repeated; and at the sound of that name her fast-beating heart grew still, for they seemed very sweet to her, those words "my sister," thrilling her with a new and strange emotion, and awakening within her a germ of the deep, undying love she was yet to feel for her who had traced those words and asked to be her sister. "I will do right," she thought; "I will conquer this foolish heart of mine, or break it in the struggle, and Henry Warner shall never know how sorely it was wrung."
The resolution gave her strength, and, rising up, she too sought the house, where, retiring to her room, she penned a hasty note to Maggie, growing calmer with each word she wrote.
"I grant your request [she said] and take you for a sister well beloved. I had a half-sister once, they say, but she died when a little babe. I never looked upon her face, and connected with her birth there was too much of sorrow and humiliation for me to think much of her, save as of one who, under other circumstances, might have been dear to me. And yet as I grow older I often find myself wishing she had lived, for my father's blood was in her veins. But I do not even know where her grave was made, for we only heard one winter morning, years ago, that she was dead with the mother who bore her. Forgive me, Maggie dear, for saying so much about that little child. Thoughts of you, who are to be my sister, make me think of her, who, had she lived, would have been a young lady now nearly your own age. So in the place of her, whom, knowing, I would have loved, I adopt you, sweet Maggie Miller, my sister and my friend. May Heaven's choicest blessings rest on you forever, and no shadow come between you and the one you have chosen for your husband! To my partial eyes he is worthy of you, Maggie, royal in bearing and queenly in form though you be, and that you may be happy with him will be the daily prayer of
"ROSE."
The letter was finished, and Rose gave it to her brother, who, after its perusal, kissed her, saying: "It is right, my darling. I will send it to-morrow with mine; and now for a ride. I will see what a little exercise can do for you. I do not like the color of your face."
But neither the fragrant summer air, nor yet the presence of Henry Warner, who tarried several days, could rouse the drooping Rose; and when at last she was left alone she sought her bed, where for many weeks she hovered between life and death, while her brother and her aunt hung over her pillow, and Maggie, from her woodland home, sent many an anxious inquiry and message of love to the sick girl. In the close atmosphere of his counting-room George Douglas too again battled manfully with his olden love, listening each day to hear that she was dead. But not thus early was Rose to die, and with the waning summer days she came slowly back to life. More beautiful than ever, because more ethereal and fair, she walked the earth like one who, having struggled with a mighty sorrow, had won the victory at last; and Henry Warner, when he looked on her sweet, placid face, and listened to her voice as she made plans for the future, when Maggie would be his wife, dreamed not of the grave hidden in the deep recesses of her heart, where grew no flower of hope or semblance of earthly joy.
Thus little know mankind of each other!
CHAPTER X
EXPECTED GUESTS.
On the Hillsdale hills the October sun was shining, and the forest trees were donning their robes of scarlet and brown, when again the old stone house presented an air of joyous expectancy. The large, dark parlors were thrown open, the best chambers were aired, the bright, autumnal flowers were gathered and in tastefully arranged bouquets adorned the mantels, while Theo and Maggie, in their best attire, flitted uneasily from room to room, running sometimes to the gate to look down the grassy road which led from the highway, and again mounting the tower stairs to obtain a more extended view.
In her pleasant apartment, where last we left her with a sprained ankle, Mrs. Jeffrey, too, fidgeted about, half sympathizing with her pupils in their happiness, and half regretting the cause of that happiness, which was the expected arrival of George Douglas and Henry Warner, who, true to their promise, were coming again to try for a week the Hillsdale air, and retrieve their character as fast young men. So, at least, they told Mrs. Jeffrey, who, mindful of her exploit with the banner, and wishing to make some amends, met them alone on the threshhold, Maggie having at the last moment run away, while Theo sat in a state of dignified perturbation upon the sofa.
A few days prior to their arrival letters had been received from Madam Conway saying she should probably, remain in England two or three weeks longer, and thus the house was again clear to the young men, who, forgetting to retrieve their characters, fairly outdid all they had done before. The weather was remarkably clear and bracing, and the greater part of each day was spent in the open air, either in fishing, riding, or hunting; Maggie teaching Henry Warner how to ride and leap, while he in turn taught her to shoot a bird upon the wing, until the pupil was equal to her master. In these outdoor excursions George Douglas and Theo did not always join, for he had something to say which he would rather tell her in the silent parlor, and which, when told, furnished food for many a quiet conversation; so Henry and Maggie rode oftentimes alone; and old Hagar, when she saw them dashing past her door, Maggie usually taking the lead, would shake her head and mutter to herself: "'Twill never do—that match. He ought to hold her back, instead of leading her on. I wish Madam Conway would, come home and end it."
Mrs. Jeffrey wished so too, as night after night her slumbers were disturbed by the sounds of merriment which came up to her from the parlor below, where the young people were "enjoying themselves," as Maggie said when reproved for the noisy revels. The day previous to the one set for their departure chanced to be Henry Warner's twenty-seventh birthday, and this Maggie resolved to honor with an extra supper, which was served at an unusually late hour in the dining room, the door of which opened out upon a closely latticed piazza.
"I wish we could think of something new to do," said Maggie, as she presided at the table—"something real funny;" then, as her eyes fell upon the dark piazza, where a single light was burning dimly, she exclaimed: "Why can't we get up tableaux? There are heaps of the queerest clothes in the big oaken chest in the garret. The servants can be audience, and they need some recreation!"
The suggestion was at once approved, and in half an hour's time the floor was strewn with garments of every conceivable fashion, from long stockings and small clothes to scarlet cloaks and gored skirts, the latter of which were immediately donned by Henry Warner, to the infinite delight of the servants, who enjoyed seeing the grotesque costumes, even if they did not exactly understand what the tableaux were intended to represent. The banner, too, was brought out, and after bearing a conspicuous part in the performance was placed at the end of the dining room, where it would be the first thing visible to a person opening the door opposite. At a late hour the servants retired, and then George Douglas, who took kindly to the luscious old wine, which Maggie again had brought from her grandmother's choicest store, filled a goblet to the brim, and, pledging first the health of the young girls, drank to "the old lady across the water" with whose goods they were thus making free!
Henry Warner rarely tasted wine, for though miles away from Rose her influence was around him—so, filling his glass with water, he too drank to the wish that "the lady across the sea" would remain there yet a while, or at all events not "stumble upon us to-night!"
"What if she should!" thought Maggie, glancing around at the different articles scattered all over the floor, and laughing as she saw in fancy her grandmother's look of dismay should she by any possible chance obtain a view of the room, where perfect order and quiet had been wont to reign.
But the good lady was undoubtedly taking her morning nap on the shores of old England. There was no danger to be apprehended from her unexpected arrival, they thought; and just as the clock struck one the young men sought their rooms, greatly to the relief of Mrs. Jeffrey, who, in her long night robe, with streaming candle in hand, had more than a dozen times leaned over the banister, wondering if the "carouse" would ever end.
It did end at last; and, tired and sleepy, Theo went directly to her chamber, while Maggie stayed below, thinking to arrange matters a little, for their guests were to leave on the first train, and she had ordered an early breakfast. But it was a hopeless task, the putting of that room to rights; and trusting much to the good-nature of the housekeeper, she finally gave it up and went to bed, forgetting in her drowsiness to fasten the outer door, or yet to extinguish the lamp which burned upon the sideboard.
CHAPTER XI.
UNEXPECTED GUESTS.
At the delightful country seat of Arthur Carrollton Madam Conway had passed many pleasant days, and was fully intending to while away several more, when an unexpected summons from his father made it necessary for the young man to go immediately to London; and, as an American steamer was about to leave the port of Liverpool, Madam Conway determined to start for home at once. Accordingly, she wrote for Anna Jeffrey, whom she had promised to take with her, to meet her in Liverpool, and a few days previous to the arrival of George Douglas and Henry Warner at Hillsdale, the two ladies embarked with an endless variety of luggage, to say nothing of Miss Anna's guitar-case, bird-cage, and favorite lap-dog "Lottie."
Once fairly on the sea, Madam Conway became exceedingly impatient and disagreeable, complaining both of fare and speed, and at length came on deck one morning with the firm belief that something dreadful had happened to Maggie! She was dangerously sick, she knew, for never but once before had she been visited with a like presentiment, and that was just before her daughter died. Then it came to her just as this had done, in her sleep, and very nervously the lady paced the vessel's deck, counting the days as they passed, and almost weeping for joy when told Boston was in sight. Immediately after landing she made inquiries as to when the next train passing Hillsdale station would leave the city, and though it was midnight she resolved at all hazards to go on, for if Maggie were really ill there was no time to be lost!
Accordingly, when at four o'clock A.M. Maggie, who was partially awake, heard in the distance the shrill scream of the engine, as the night express thundered through the town, she little dreamed of the boxes, bundles, trunks, and bags which lined the platform of Hillsdale station, nor yet of the resolute woman in brown who persevered until a rude one-horse wagon was found in which to transport herself and her baggage to the old stone house. The driver of the vehicle, in which, under ordinary circumstances, Madam Conway would have scorned to ride, was a long, lean, half-witted fellow, utterly unfitted for his business. Still, he managed quite well until they turned into the grassy by-road, and Madam Conway saw through the darkness the light which Maggie had inadvertently left within the dining room!
There was no longer a shadow of uncertainty. "Margaret was dead!" and the lank Tim was ordered to drive faster, or the excited woman, perched on one of her traveling-trunks, would be obliged to foot it! A few vigorous strokes of the whip set the sorrel horse into a canter, and as the night was dark, and the road wound round among the trees, it is not at all surprising that Madam Conway, with her eye still on the beacon light, found herself seated rather unceremoniously in the midst of a brush heap, her goods and chattels rolling promiscuously around her, while lying across a log, her right hand clutching at the bird-cage, and her left grasping the shaggy hide of Lottie, who yelled most furiously, was Anna Jeffrey, half blinded with mud, and bitterly denouncing American drivers and Yankee roads! To gather themselves together was not an easy matter, but the ten pieces were at last all told, and then, holding up her skirts, bedraggled with dew, Madam Conway resumed her seat in the wagon, which was this time driven in safety to her door. Giving orders for her numerous boxes to be safely bestowed, she hastened forward and soon stood upon the threshold.
"Great Heaven!" she exclaimed, starting backward so suddenly that she trod upon the foot of Lottie, who again sent forth an outcry, which Anna Jeffrey managed to choke down. "Is this bedlam, or what?" And stepping out upon the piazza, she looked to see if the blundering driver had made a mistake. But no; it was the same old gray stone house she had left some months before; and again pressing boldly forward, she took the lamp from the sideboard and commenced to reconnoiter. "My mother's wedding dress, as I live! and her scarlet broadcloth, too!" she cried, holding to view the garments which Henry Warner had thrown upon the arm of the long settee. A turban or cushion, which she recognized as belonging to her grandmother, next caught her view, together with the smallclothes of her sire.
"The entire contents of the oaken chest," she continued, in a tone far from calm and cool. "What can have happened! It's some of that crazy Hagar's work, I know. I'll have her put in the—" But whatever the evil was which threatened Hagar Warren it was not defined by words, for at that moment the indignant lady caught sight of an empty bottle, which she instantly recognized as having held her very oldest, choicest wine. "The Lord help me!" she cried, "I've been robbed;" and grasping the bottle by the neck, she leaned up against the banner which she had not yet descried.
"In the name of wonder, what's this?" she almost screamed, as the full blaze of the lamp fell upon the flag, revealing the truth at once, and partially stopping her breath.
Robbery was nothing to insult; and, forgetting the wine, she gasped: "'Stars and Stripes' in this house! In the house of my grandfather, as loyal a subject as King George ever boasted! What can Margaret be doing to suffer a thing like this?"
A few steps further on, and Margaret herself might have been seen peering out into the darkened upper hall, and listening anxiously to her grandmother's voice. The sound of the rattling old wagon had aroused her, and, curious to know who was stirring at this early hour, she had cautiously opened her window, which overlooked the piazza, and to her great dismay had recognized her grandmother as she gave orders concerning her baggage. Flying back to her room, she awoke her sister, who, springing up in bed, whispered faintly: "Will she kill us dead, Maggie? Will she kill us dead?"
"Pshaw! no," answered Maggie, her own courage rising with Theo's fears. "She'll have to scold a spell, I suppose; but I can coax her, I know!"
By this time the old lady was ascending the stairs, and closing the door Maggie applied her eye to the keyhole, listening breathlessly for what might follow. George Douglas and Henry Warner occupied separate rooms, and their boots were now standing outside their doors, ready for the chore boy, Jim, who thus earned a quarter every day. Stumbling first upon the pair belonging to George Douglas, the lady took them up, ejaculating: "Boots! boots! Yes, men's boots, as I'm a living woman! The like was never seen by me before in this hall. Another pair!" she continued, as her eye fell on those of Henry Warner. "Another pair, and in the best chamber, too! What will come next?" And setting down her light, she wiped the drops of perspiration from her face, at the same time looking around in some alarm lest the owners of said boots should come forth.
Just at that moment Mrs. Jeffrey appeared. Alarmed by the unusual noise, and fancying the young gentlemen might be robbing the house as a farewell performance, she had donned a calico wrapper, and tying a black silk handkerchief over her cap, had taken her scissors, the only weapon of defense she could find, and thus equipped for battle she had sallied forth. She was prepared for burglars—nay, she would not have been disappointed had she found the young men busily engaged in removing the ponderous furniture from their rooms; but the sight of Madam Conway, at that unseasonable hour, was wholly unexpected, and in her fright she dropped the lamp which she had lighted in place of her candle, and which was broken in fragments, deluging the carpet with oil and eliciting a fresh groan from Madam Conway.
"Jeffrey, Jeffrey!" she gasped; "what have you done?"
"Great goodness!" ejaculated Mrs. Jeffrey, remembering her adventure when once before she left her room in the night. "I certainly am the most unfortunate of mortals. Catch me out of bed again, let what will happen;" and turning, she was about to leave the hall, when Madam Conway, anxious to know what had been done, called her back, saying rather indignantly, "I'd like to know whose house I am in?"
"A body would suppose 'twas Miss Margaret's, the way she's conducted," answered Mrs. Jeffrey; and Madam Conway continued, pointing to the boots: "Who have we here? These are not Margaret's, surely?"
"No, ma'am, they belong to the young men who have turned the house topsy-turvy with their tableaux, their Revolution celebration, their banner, and carousing generally," said Mrs. Jeffrey, rather pleased than otherwise at being the first to tell the news.
"Young men!" repeated Madam Conway—"what young men? Where did they come from, and why are they here?"
"They are Douglas and Warner," said Mrs. Jeffrey, "two as big scapegraces as there are this side of Old Bailey—that's what they are. They came from Worcester, and if I've any discernment they are after your girls, and your girls are after them."
"After my girls! After Maggie! It can't be possible!" gasped Mrs.
Conway, thinking of Arthur Carrollton.
"It's the very truth, though," returned Mrs. Jeffrey. "Henry Warner, who, in my opinion, is the worst of the two, got to chasing Margaret in the woods, as long ago as last April. She jumped Gritty across the gorge, and he, like a fool, jumped after, breaking his leg—"
"Pity it hadn't been his neck," interrupted Madam Conway; and Mrs. Jeffrey continued: "Of course he was brought here, and Margaret took care of him. After a while his comrade Douglas came out, and of all the carousals you ever thought of, I reckon they had the worst. 'Twas the Fourth of July, and if you'll believe it they made a banner, and Maggie planted it herself on the housetop. They went off next morning; but now they've come again, and last night the row beat all. I never got a wink of sleep till after two o'clock."
Here, entirely out of breath, the old lady paused, and, going to her room, brought out a basin of water and a towel, with which she tried to wipe off the oil. But Madam Conway paid little heed to the spoiled carpet, so engrossed was she with what she had heard.
"I am astonished at Margaret's want of discretion," said she, "and I depended so much upon her, too."
"I always knew you were deceived by her," said Mrs. Jeffrey, still bending over the oil; "but it wasn't for me to say so, for you are blinded towards that girl. She's got some of the queerest notions, and then she's so high-strung. She won't listen to reason. But I did my country good service once. I went up in the dead of night to take down the flag, and I don't regret it either, even if it did pitch me to the bottom of the stairs, and sprained my ankle."
"Served you right," interposed Madam Conway, who, not at all pleased at hearing Margaret thus censured, now turned the full force of her wrath upon the poor little governess, blaming her for having suffered such proceedings. "What did Margaret and Theo know, young things as they were? and what was Mrs. Jeffrey there for if not to keep them circumspect! But instead of doing this, she had undoubtedly encouraged them in their folly, and then charged it upon Margaret."
It was in vain that the greatly distressed and astonished lady protested her innocence, pleading her sleepless nights and lame ankle as proofs of having done her duty; Madam Conway would not listen. "Somebody was of course to blame," and as it is a long-established rule that a part of every teacher's duty is to be responsible for the faults of the pupils, so Madam Conway now continued to chide Mrs. Jeffrey as the prime-mover of everything, until that lady, overwhelmed with the sense of injustice done her, left the oil and retired to her room, saying as she closed the door: "I was never so injured in all my life—never. To think that after all my trouble she should charge it to me! It will break my heart, I know. Where shall I go for comfort or rest?"
This last word was opportune and suggestive. If rest could not be found in Baxter's "Saints' Rest," it was not by her to be found at all; and, sitting down by the window in the gray dawn of the morning, she strove to draw comfort from the words of the good divine; but in vain. It had never failed her before; but never before had she been so deeply injured; and, closing the volume at last, she paced the floor in a very perturbed state of mind.
Meantime, Madam Conway had sought her granddaughter's chamber, where Theo in her fright had taken refuge under the bed, while Maggie feigned a deep, sound sleep. A few vigorous shakes, however, aroused her, when, greatly to the amazement of her grandmother, she burst into a merry laugh, and, winding her arms around the highly scandalized lady's neck, said: "Forgive me, grandma, I've been awake ever since you came home. I did not mean to leave the dining room in such disorder, but I was so tired, and we had such fun! Hear me out," she continued, laying her hand over the mouth of her grandmother, who attempted to speak; "Mrs. Jeffrey told you how Mr. Warner broke his leg, and was brought here. He is a real nice young man, and so is Mr. Douglas, who came out to see him. They are partners in the firm of Douglas & Co., Worcester."
"Henry Warner is nothing but the Co., though; Mr. Douglas owns the store, and is worth two hundred thousand dollars!" cried a smothered voice under the bed; and Theo emerged into view, with a feather or two ornamenting her hair, and herself looking a little uneasy and frightened.
The two hundred thousand dollars produced a magical effect upon the old lady, exonerating George Douglas at once from all blame. But towards Henry Warner she was not thus lenient; for, coward-like, Theo charged him with having suggested everything, even to the cutting up of the ancestral red coat for Freedom's banner!
"What!" fairly screamed Madam Conway, who in her hasty glance at the flag had not observed the material; "not taken my grandfather's coat for a banner!"
"Yes, he did," said Theo, "and Maggie cut up your blue satin bodice for stars, and took one of your fine linen sheets for the foundation."
"The wretch!" exclaimed Madam Conway, stamping her foot in her wrath, and thinking only of Henry Warner; "I'll turn him from my door instantly. My blue satin bodice, indeed!"
"'Twas I, grandma—'twas I," interrupted Maggie, looking reproachfully at Theo. "'Twas I who cut up the bodice. I who brought down the scarlet coat."
"And I didn't do a thing but look on," said Theo. "I knew you'd be angry, and I tried to make Maggie behave, but she wouldn't."
"I don't know as it is anything to you what Maggie does, and I think it would look quite as well in you to take part of the blame yourself, instead of putting it all upon your sister," was Madam Conway's reply; and, feeling almost as deeply injured as Mrs. Jeffrey herself, Theo began to cry, while Maggie, with a few masterly strokes, succeeded in so far appeasing the anger of her grandmother that the good lady consented for the young gentlemen to stay to breakfast, saying, though, that "they should decamp immediately after, and never darken her doors again."
"But Mr. Douglas is rich," sobbed Theo from behind her pocket handkerchief—"immensely rich, and of a very aristocratic family, I'm sure, else where did he get his money?"
This remark was timely, and when fifteen minutes later Madam Conway was presented to the gentlemen in the hall her manner was far more gracious towards George Douglas than it was towards Henry Warner, to whom she merely nodded, deigning no answer whatever to his polite apology for having made himself so much at home in her house. The expression of his mouth was as usual against him, and, fancying he intended adding insult to injury by laughing in her face, she coolly turned her back upon him ere he had finished speaking, and walked downstairs, leaving him to wind up his speech with "an old she-dragon"!
By this time both the sun and the servants had arisen, the former shining into the disorderly dining room, and disclosing to the latter the weary, jaded Anna, who, while Madam Conway was exploring the house, had thrown herself upon the lounge and had fallen asleep.
"Who is she, and where did she come from?" was anxiously inquired, and they were about going in quest of Margaret when their mistress appeared suddenly in their midst, and their noisy demonstrations of joyful surprise awoke the sleeping girl, who, rubbing her red eyelids, asked for her aunt, and why she did not come to meet her.
"She has been a little excited, and forgot you, perhaps," answered Madam Conway, at the same time bidding one of the servants to show the young lady to Mrs. Jeffrey's room.
The good lady had recovered her composure somewhat, and was just wondering why her niece had not come with Madam Conway, as had been arranged, when Anna appeared, and in her delight at once more beholding a child of her only sister, and her husband's brother, she forgot in a measure how injured she had felt. Ere long the breakfast bell rang; but Anna declared herself too weary to go down, and as Mrs. Jeffrey felt that she could not yet meet Madam Conway face to face, they both remained in their room, Anna again falling away to sleep, while her aunt, grown more calm, sought, and this time found, comfort in her favorite volume. Very cool, indeed, was that breakfast, partaken in almost unbroken silence below. The toast was cold, the steak was cold, the coffee was cold, and frosty as an icicle was the lady who sat where the merry Maggie had heretofore presided. Scarcely a word was spoken by anyone; but in the laughing eyes of Maggie there was a world of fun, to which the mischievous mouth of Henry Warner responded by a curl exceedingly annoying to his stately hostess, who, in passing him his coffee, turned her head in another direction lest she should be too civil!
Breakfast being over, George Douglas, who began to understand Madam Conway tolerably well, asked of her a private interview, which was granted, when he conciliated her first by apologizing for anything ungentlemanly he might have done in her house, and startled her next by asking for Theo as his wife.
"You can," said he, "easily ascertain my character and standing in Worcester, where for the last ten years I have been known first as clerk, then as junior partner, and finally as proprietor of the large establishment which I now conduct."
Madam Conway was at first too astonished to speak. Had it been Maggie for whom he asked, the matter would have been decided at once, for Maggie was her pet, her pride, the intended bride of Arthur Carrollton; but Theo was a different creature altogether, and though the Conway blood flowing in her veins entitled her to much consideration, she was neither showy nor brilliant, and if she could marry two hundred thousand dollars, even though it were American coin, she would perhaps be doing quite as well as could be expected. So Madam Conway replied at last that she would consider the matter, and if she found that Theo's feelings were fully enlisted she would perhaps return a favorable answer. "I know the firm of Douglas & Co. by reputation," said she, "and I know it to be a wealthy firm; but with me family is quite as important as money."
"My family, madam, are certainly respectable," interrupted George
Douglas, a deep flush overspreading his face.
He was indignant at her presuming to question his respectability,
Madam Conway thought, and so she hastened to appease him by saying:
"Certainly, I have no doubt of it. There are marks by which I can
always tell."
George Douglas bowed low to the far-seeing lady, while a train of thought, not altogether complimentary to her discernment in this case, passed through his mind.
Not thus lenient would Madam Conway have been towards Henry Warner had he presumed to ask her that morning for Maggie, but he knew better than to broach the subject then. He would write her, he said, immediately after his return to Worcester, and in the meantime Maggie, if she saw proper, was to prepare her grandmother for it by herself announcing the engagement. This, and much more, he said to Maggie as they sat together in the library, so much absorbed in each other as not to observe the approach of Madam Conway, who entered the door just in time to see Henry Warner with his arm around Maggie's waist. She was a woman of bitter prejudices, and had conceived a violent dislike for Henry, not only on account of the "Stars and Stripes," but because she read to a certain extent the true state of affairs. Her suspicions were now confirmed, and rapidly crossing the floor she confronted him, saying, "Let my granddaughter alone, young man, both now and forever."
Something of Hagar's fiery spirit flashed from Maggie's dark eyes, but forcing down her anger she answered half earnestly, half playfully, "I am nearly old enough, grandma, to decide that matter for myself."
A fierce expression of scorn passed over Madam Conway's face, and harsh words might have ensued had not the carriage at that moment been announced. Wringing Maggie's hand, Henry arose and left the room, followed by the indignant lady, who would willingly have suffered him to walk; but thinking two hundred thousand dollars quite too much money to go on foot, she had ordered her carriage, and both the senior and junior partner of Douglas & Co. Were ere long riding a second time away from the old house by the mill.
CHAPTER XII.
THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED.
"Grandma wishes to see you, Maggie, in her room," said Theo to her sister one morning, three days after the departure of their guests.
"Wishes to see me! For what?" asked Maggie; and Theo answered, "I don't know, unless it is to talk with you about Arthur Carrollton."
"Arthur Carrollton!" repeated Maggie. "Much good it will do her to talk to me of him. I hate the very sound of his name;" and, rising, she walked slowly to her grandmother's room, where in her stiff brown satin dress, her golden spectacles planted firmly upon her nose, and the Valenciennes border of her cap shading but not concealing the determined look on her face, Madam Conway sat erect in her high-backed chair, with an open letter upon her lap.
It was from Henry. Maggie knew his handwriting in a moment, and there was another too for her; but she was too proud to ask for it, and, seating herself by the window, she waited for her grandmother to break the silence, which she did ere long as follows:
"I have just received a letter from that Warner, asking me to sanction an engagement which he says exists between himself and you. Is it true? Are you engaged to him?"
"I am," answered Maggie, playing nervously with the tassel of her wrapper, and wondering why Henry had written so soon, before she had prepared the way by a little judicious coaxing.
"Well, then," continued Madam Conway, "the sooner it is broken the better. I am astonished that you should stoop to such an act, and I hope you are not in earnest."
"But I am," answered Maggie; and in the same cold, decided manner her grandmother continued: "Then nothing remains for me but to forbid your having any communication whatever with one whose conduct in my house has been so unpardonably rude and vulgar. You will never marry him, Margaret, never! Nay, I would sooner see you dead than the wife of that low, mean, impertinent fellow!"
In the large dark eyes there was a gleam decidedly "Hagarish" as Maggie arose, and, standing before her grandmother, made answer: "You must not, in my presence, speak thus of Henry Warner. He is neither low, mean, vulgar, nor impertinent. You are prejudiced against him because you think him comparatively poor, and because he has dared to look at me, who have yet to understand why the fact of my being a Conway makes me any better. I have promised to be Henry Warner's wife, and Margaret Miller never yet has broken her word."
"But in this instance you will," said Madam Conway, now thoroughly aroused. "I will never suffer it; and to prove I am in earnest I will here, before your face, burn the letter he has presumed to send you; and this I will do to any others which may come to you from him."
Maggie offered no remonstrance; but the fire of a volcano burned within, as she watched the letter blackening upon the coals; and when next her eyes met those of her grandmother there was in them a fierce, determined look which prompted that lady at once to change her tactics and try the power of persuasion rather than of force. Feigning a smile, she said: "What ails you, child? You look to me like Hagar. It was wrong in me, perhaps, to burn your letter, and had I reflected a moment I might not have done it; but I cannot suffer you to receive any more. I have other prospects in view for you, and have only waited a favorable opportunity to tell you what they are. Sit down by me, Margaret, while I talk with you on the subject."
The burning of her letter had affected Margaret strangely, and with a benumbed feeling at her heart she sat down without a word and listened patiently to praises long and praises loud of Arthur Carrollton, who was described as being every way desirable, both as a friend and a husband. "His father, the elder Mr. Carrollton, was an intimate friend of my husband," said Madam Conway, "and wishes our families to be more closely united, by a marriage between you and his son Arthur, who is rather fastidious in his taste, and though twenty-eight years old has never yet seen a face which suited him. But he is pleased with you, Maggie. He liked your picture, imperfect as it is, and he liked the tone of your letters, which I read to him. They were so original, he said, so much like what he fancied you to be. He has a splendid country seat, and more than one nobleman's daughter would gladly share it with him; but I think he fancies you. He has a large estate near Montreal, and some difficulty connected with it will ere long bring him to America. Of course he will visit here, and with a little tact on your part you can, I'm sure, secure one of the best matches in England. He is fine-looking, too. I have his daguerreotype;" and opening her workbox she drew it forth and held it before Maggie, who resolutely shut her eyes lest she should see the face of one she was so determined to dislike.
"What do you think of him?" asked Madam Conway as her arm began to ache, and Maggie had not yet spoken.
"I haven't looked at him," answered Maggie; "I hate him, and if he comes here after me I'll tell him so, too. I hate him because he is an Englishman. I hate him because he is aristocratic. I hate him for everything, and before I marry him I'll run away!"
Here, wholly overcome, Maggie burst into tears, and precipitately left the room. An hour later, and Hagar, sitting by her fire, which the coolness of the day rendered necessary, was startled by the abrupt entrance of Maggie, who, throwing herself upon the floor, and burying her face in the old woman's lap, sobbed bitterly.
"What is it, child? What is it, darling?" asked Hagar; and in a few words Maggie explained the whole. "I am persecuted, dreadfully persecuted! Nobody before ever had so much trouble as I. Grandma has burned a letter from Henry Warner, and would not give it to me. Grandma said, too, I should never marry him, should never write to him, nor see anything he might send to me. Oh, Hagar, Hagar, isn't it cruel?" and the eyes, whose wrathful, defiant expression was now quenched in tears, looked up in Hagar's face for sympathy.
The right chord was touched, and much as Hagar might have disliked
Henry Warner she was his fast friend now. Her mistress' opposition and
Maggie's tears had wrought a change, and henceforth all her energies
should be given to the advancement of the young couple's cause.
"I can manage it," she said, smoothing the long silken tresses which lay in disorder upon her lap. "Richland post office is only four miles from here; I can walk double that distance easy. Your grandmother never thinks of going there, neither am I known to anyone in that neighborhood. Write your letter to Henry Warner, and before the sun goes down it shall be safe in the letter-box. He can write to the same place, but he had better direct to me, as your name might excite suspicion."
This plan seemed perfectly feasible; but it struck Maggie unpleasantly. She had never attempted to deceive in her life, and she shrunk from the first deception. She would rather, she said, try again to win her grandmother's consent. But this she found impossible; Madam Conway was determined, and would not listen.
"It grieves me sorely," she said, "thus to cross my favorite child, whom I love better than my life; but it is for her good, and must be done."
So she wrote a cold and rather insulting letter to Henry Warner, bidding him, as she had done before, "let her granddaughter alone," and saying it was useless for him to attempt anything secret, for Maggie would be closely watched, the moment there were indications of a clandestine correspondence.
This letter, which was read to Margaret, destroyed all hope, and still she wavered, uncertain whether it would be right to deceive her grandmother. But while she was yet undecided, Hagar's fingers, of late unused to the pen, traced a few lines to Henry Warner, who, acting at once upon her suggestion, wrote to Margaret a letter which he directed to "Hagar Warren, Richland."
In it he urged so many reasons why Maggie should avail herself of this opportunity for communicating with him that she yielded at last, and regularly each week old Hagar toiled through sunshine and through storm to the Richland post office, feeling amply repaid for her trouble when she saw the bright expectant face which almost always greeted her return. Occasionally, by way of lulling the suspicions of Madam Conway, Henry would direct a letter to Hillsdale, knowing full well it would never meet the eyes of Margaret, over whom, for the time being, a spy had been set, in the person of Anna Jeffrey.
This young lady, though but little connected with our story, may perhaps deserve a brief notice. Older than either Theo or Margaret, she was neither remarkable for beauty nor talent. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-browed, and, as the servants said, "dark in her disposition," she was naturally envious of those whose rank in life entitled them to more attention than she was herself accustomed to receive. For this reason Maggie Miller had from the first been to her an object of dislike, and she was well pleased when Madam Conway, enjoining the strictest secrecy, appointed her to watch that young lady, and see that no letter was ever carried by her to the post office which Madam Conway had not first examined. In the snaky eyes there was a look of exultation as Anna Jeffrey promised to be faithful to her trust, and for a time she became literally Maggie Miller's shadow, following her here, following her there, and following her everywhere, until Maggie complained so bitterly of the annoyance that Madam Conway at last, feeling tolerably sure that no counterplot was intended, revoked her orders, and bade Anna Jeffrey leave Margaret free to do as she pleased.
Thus relieved from espionage, Maggie became a little more like herself, though a sense of the injustice done her by her grandmother, together with the deception she knew she was practicing, wore upon her; and the servants at their work listened in vain for the merry laugh they had loved so well to hear. In the present state of Margaret's feelings Madam Conway deemed it prudent to say nothing of Arthur Carrollton, whose name was never mentioned save by Theo and Anna, the latter of whom had seen him in England, and was never so well pleased as when talking of his fine country seat, his splendid park, his handsome horses, and last, though not least, of himself. "He is," she said, "without exception, the most elegant and aristocratic young man I have ever seen;" and then for more than an hour she would entertain Theo with a repetition of the many agreeable things he had said to her during the one day she had spent at his house while Madam Conway was visiting there.
In perfect indifference, Maggie, who was frequently present, would listen to these stories, sometimes listlessly turning the leaves of a book, and again smiling scornfully as she thought how impossible it was that the fastidious Arthur Carrolton should have been at all pleased with a girl like Anna Jeffrey; and positive as Maggie was that she hated him, she insensibly began to feel a very slight degree of interest in him; at least, she would like to know how he looked; and one day when her grandmother and Theo were riding she stole cautiously to the box where she knew his picture lay, and, taking it out, looked to see if he were so very fine-looking.
Yes, he was,—Maggie acknowledged that; and, sure that she hated him terribly, she lingered long over that picture, admiring the classically shaped head, the finely cut mouth, and more than all the large dark eyes which seemed so full of goodness and truth. "Pshaw!" she exclaimed at last, restoring the picture to its place; "if Henry were only a little taller, and had as handsome eyes, he'd be a great deal better-looking. Anyway, I like him, and I hate Arthur Carrollton, who I know is domineering, and would try to make me mind. He has asked for my daguerreotype, grandma says—one which looks as I do now. I'll send it too," and she burst into a loud laugh at the novel idea which had crossed her mind.
That day when Madam Conway returned from her ride she was surprised at Maggie's proposing that Theo and herself should have their likenesses taken for Arthur Carrollton.
"If he wants my picture," said she, "I am willing he shall have it. It is all he'll ever get."
Delighted at this unexpected concession, Madam Conway gave her consent, and the next afternoon found Theo and Maggie at the daguerrean gallery in Hillsdale, where the latter astonished both her sister and the artist by declaring her intention of not only sitting with her bonnet and shawl on; but also of turning her back to the instrument! It was in vain that Theo remonstrated! "That position or none," she said; and the picture was accordingly taken, presenting a very correct likeness, when finished, of a bonnet, a veil, and a shawl, beneath which Maggie Miller was supposed to be.
Strange as it may seem, this freak struck Madam Conway favorably. Arthur Carrollton knew that Maggie was unlike any other person, and the joke, she thought, would increase, rather than diminish, the interest he already felt in her. So she made no objection, and in a few days it was on its way to England, together with a lock of Hagar's snow-white hair, which Maggie had coaxed from the old lady, and, unknown to her grandmother, placed in the casing at the last moment.
Several weeks passed away, and then there came an answer—a letter so full of wit and humor that Maggie confessed to herself that he must be very clever to write so many shrewd things and to be withal so perfectly refined. Accompanying the package was a small rosewood box, containing a most exquisite little pin made of Hagar's frosty hair, and richly ornamented with gold. Not a word was written concerning it, and as Maggie kept her own counsel, both Theo and her grandmother marveled greatly, admiring its beauty and wondering for whom it was intended.
"For me, of course," said Madam Conway. "The hair is Lady Carrollton's, Arthur's grandmother. I know it by its soft, silky look. She has sent it as a token of respect, for she was always fond of me;" and going to the glass she very complacently ornamented her Honiton collar with Hagar's hair, while Maggie, bursting with fun, beat a hasty retreat from the room, lest she should betray herself.
Thus the winter passed away, and early in the spring George Douglas, to whom Madam Conway had long ago sent a favorable answer, came to visit his betrothed, bringing to Maggie a note from Rose, who had once or twice sent messages in Henry's letters. She was in Worcester now, and her health was very delicate. "Sometimes," she wrote, "I fear I shall never see you, Maggie Miller—shall never look into your beautiful face, or listen to your voice; but whether in heaven or on earth I am first to meet with you, my heart claims you as a sister, the one whom of all the sisters in the world I would rather call my own."
"Darling Rose!" murmured Maggie, pressing the delicately traced lines to her lips, "how near she seems to me! nearer almost than Theo;" and then involuntarily her thoughts went backward to the night when Henry Warner first told her of his love, and when in her dreams there had been a strange blending together of herself, of Rose, and the little grave beneath the pine!
But not yet was that veil of mystery to be lifted. Hagar's secret must be kept a little longer; and, unsuspicious of the truth, Maggie Miller must dream on of sweet Rose Warner, whom she hopes one day to call her sister!
There was also a message from Henry, and this George Douglas delivered in secret, for he did not care to displease his grandmother-elect, who viewing him through a golden setting, thought he was not to be equaled by anyone in America. "So gentlemanly," she said, "and so modest too," basing her last conclusion upon his evident unwillingness to say very much of himself or his family. Concerning the latter she had questioned him in vain, eliciting nothing save the fact that they lived in the country several miles from Worcester, and that his father always stayed at home, and consequently his mother went but little into society.
"Despises the vulgar herd, I dare say," thought Madam Conway, contemplating the pleasure she should undoubtedly derive from an acquaintance with Mrs. Douglas, senior!
"There was a sister, too," he said, and at this announcement Theo opened wide her blue eyes, asking her name, and why he had never mentioned her before.
"I call her Jenny," said he, coloring slightly, and adding playfully, as he caressed Theo's smooth, round cheek, "Wives do not usually like their husbands' sisters."
"But I shall like her, I know," said Theo. "She has a beautiful name, Jenny Douglas—much prettier than Rose Warner, about whom Maggie talks to me so much."
A gathering frown on her grandmother's face warned Theo that she had touched upon a forbidden subject, and as Mr. Douglas manifested no desire to continue the conversation it ceased for a time, Theo wishing she could see Jenny Douglas, and George wondering what she would say when she did see her!
For a few days longer he lingered, and ere his return it was arranged that early in July Theo should be his bride. On the morning of his departure, as he stood upon the steps alone with Madam Conway, she said, "I think I can rely upon you, Mr. Douglas, not to carry either letter, note, or message from Maggie to that young Warner. I've forbidden him in my house, and I mean what I say."
"I assure you, madam, she has not asked me to carry either," answered George; who, though he knew perfectly well of the secret correspondence, had kept it to himself. "You mistake Mr. Warner, I think," he continued, after a moment. "I have known him long, and esteem him highly."
"Tastes differ," returned Madam Conway coldly. "No man of good breeding would presume to cut up my grandfather's coat or drink up my best wine."
"He intended no disrespect, I'm sure," answered George. "He only wanted a little fun with the 'Stars and Stripes.'"
"It was fun for which he will pay most dearly, though," answered Madam Conway, as she bade Mr. Douglas good-by; then, walking back to the parlor, she continued speaking to herself: "'Stars and Stripes'! I'll teach him to cut up my blue bodice for fun. I wouldn't give him Margaret if his life depended upon it;" and sitting down she wrote to Arthur Carrollton, asking if he really intended visiting America, and when.
CHAPTER XIII.
SOCIETY.
During the remainder of the spring matters at the old stone house proceeded about as usual, Maggie writing regularly to Henry, who as regularly answered, while old Hagar managed it so adroitly that no one suspected the secret correspondence, and Madam Conway began to hope her granddaughter had forgotten the foolish fancy. Arthur Carrollton had replied that his visit to America, though sure to take place, was postponed indefinitely, and so the good lady had nothing in particular with which to busy herself, save the preparations for Theo's wedding, which was to take place near the first of July.
Though setting a high value upon money, Madam Conway was not penurious, and the bridal trousseau far exceeded anything which Theo had expected. As the young couple were not to keep house for a time, a most elegant suite of rooms had been selected in a fashionable hotel; and determining that Theo should not, in point of dress, be rivaled by any of her fellow-boarders, Madam Conway spared neither time nor money in making the outfit perfect. So for weeks the old stone house presented a scene of great confusion. Chairs, tables, lounges, and piano were piled with finery, on which Anna Jeffrey worked industriously, assisted sometimes by her aunt, whom Madam Conway pronounced altogether too superannuated for a governess, and who, though really an excellent scholar, was herself far better pleased with muslin robes and satin bows than with French idioms and Latin verbs. Perfectly delighted, Maggie joined in the general excitement, wondering occasionally when and where her own bridal would be. Once she ventured to ask if Henry Warner and his sister might be invited to Theo's wedding; but Madam Conway answered so decidedly in the negative that she gave it up, consoling herself with thinking that she would some time visit her sister, and see Henry in spite of her grandmother.
The marriage was very quiet, for Madam Conway had no acquaintance, and the family alone witnessed the ceremony. At first Madam Conway had hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Douglas, senior, together with their daughter Jenny, would be present, and she had accordingly requested George to invite them, feeling greatly disappointed when she learned that they could not come.
"I wanted so much to see them," she said to Maggie, "and know whether they are worthy to be related to the Conways—but of course they are, as much so as any American family. George has every appearance of refinement and high-breeding."
"But his family, for all that, may be as ignorant as Farmer Canfield's," answered Maggie; to which her grandmother replied: "You needn't tell me that, for I'm not to be deceived in such matters. I can tell at a glance if a person is low-born, no matter what their education or advantages may have been. Who's that?" she added quickly, and turning round she saw old Hagar, her eyes lighted up and her lips moving with incoherent sounds.
Hagar had come up to the wedding, and had reached the door of Madam Conway's room just in time to hear the last remark, which roused her at once.
"Why don't she discover my secret, then," she muttered, "if she has so much discernment? Why don't she see the Hagar blood in her? for it's there, plain as day;" and she glanced proudly at Maggie, who, in her simple robe of white, was far more beautiful than the bride.
And still Theo, in her handsome traveling dress, was very fair to look upon, and George Douglas felt proud that she was his, resolving, as he kissed away the tears she shed at parting, that the vow he had just made should never be broken. A few weeks of pleasant travel westward, and then the newly wedded pair came back to what, for a time, was to be their home.
George Douglas was highly respected in Worcester, both as a man of honor and a man of wealth; consequently, every possible attention was paid to Theo, who was petted and admired, until she began to wonder why neither Maggie nor yet her all-discerning grandmother had discovered how charming and faultless she was!
Among George's acquaintance was a Mrs. Morton, a dashing, fashionable woman, who determined to honor the bride with a party, to which all the elite of Worcester were invited, together with many Bostonians. Madam Conway and Maggie were of course upon the list; and, as timely notice was given them by Theo, Madam Conway went twice to Springfield in quest of a suitable dress for Maggie. She wanted something becoming, she said; and a delicate rose-colored satin, with a handsome overskirt of lace, was at last decided upon.
"She must have some pearls for her hair," thought Madam Conway; and when next Maggie, who, girl-like, tried the effect of her first party dress at least a dozen times, stood before the glass to see if it were exactly the right length, she was presented with the pearls, which Anna Jeffrey, with a feeling of envy at her heart, arranged in the shining braids of her hair.
"Oh, isn't it perfectly splendid!" cried Maggie, herself half inclined to compliment the beautiful image reflected in the mirror.
"You ought to see Arthur Carrollton's sister when she is dressed, if you think you look handsome," answered Anna, adding that diamonds were much more fashionable than pearls.
"You have attended a great many parties and seen a great deal of fashion, so I dare say you are right," Maggie answered ironically; and then, as through the open window she saw Hagar approaching, she ran out upon the piazza, to see what the old woman would say.
Hagar had never seen her thus before, and now, throwing up her hands in astonishment, she involuntarily dropped upon her knees, and, while the tears rained over her timeworn face, whispered, "Hester's child—my granddaughter—Heaven be praised!"
"Do I look pretty?" Margaret asked; and Hagar answered: "More beautiful than anyone I ever saw. I wish your mother could see you now."
Involuntarily Maggie glanced at the tall marble gleaming through the distant trees, while Hagar's thoughts were down in that other grave—the grave beneath the pine. The next day was the party, and at an early hour Madam Conway was ready. Her rich purple satin and Valenciennes laces, with which she hoped to impress Mrs. Douglas, senior, were carefully packed up, together with Maggie's dress; and then, shawled and bonneted, she waited impatiently for her carriage, which she preferred to the cars. It came at last, but in place of John, the usual coachman, Mike, a rather wild youth of twenty, was mounted upon the box. His father, he said, had been taken suddenly ill, and had deputized him to drive.
For a time Madam Conway hesitated, for she knew Mike's one great failing, and she hardly dared risk herself with him, lest she should find a seat less desirable even than the memorable brush-heap. But Mike protested loudly to having joined the "Sons of Temperance" only the night before, and as in his new suit of blue, with shining brass buttons, he presented a more stylish appearance than his father, his mistress finally decided to try him, threatening all manner of evil if in any way he broke his pledge, either to herself or the "Sons," the latter of whom had probably never heard of him. He was perfectly sober now, and drove them safely to Worcester, where they soon found themselves in Theo's handsome rooms. Her wrappings removed and herself snugly ensconced in a velvet-cushioned chair, Madam Conway asked the young bride how long before Mrs. Douglas, senior, would probably arrive.
A slight shadow, which no one observed, passed over Theo's face as she answered, "George's father seldom goes into society, and consequently his mother will not come."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" replied Madam Conway, thinking of the purple satin, and continuing, "Nor the young lady, either?"
"None of them," answered Theo, adding hastily, as if to change the conversation, "Isn't my piano perfectly elegant?" and she ran her fingers over an exquisitely carved instrument, which had inscribed upon it simply "Theo"; and then, as young brides sometimes will, she expatiated upon the kindness and generosity of George, showing, withal, that her love for her husband was founded upon something far more substantial than family or wealth.
Her own happiness, it would seem, had rendered her less selfish and more thoughtful for others; for once that afternoon, on returning to her room after a brief absence, she whispered to Maggie that "someone in the parlor below wished to see her."
Then seating herself at her grandmother's feet, she entertained her so well with a description of her travels that the good lady failed to observe the absence of Maggie, who, face to face with Henry Warner, was making amends for their long separation. Much they talked of the past, and then Henry spoke of the future; but of this Maggie was less hopeful. Her grandmother would never consent to their marriage, she knew—the "Stars and Stripes" had decided that matter, even though there were no Arthur Carrollton across the sea, and Maggie sighed despondingly as she thought of the long years of single-blessedness in store for her.
"There is but one alternative left, then," said Henry. "If your grandmother refuses her consent altogether, I must take you without her consent."
"I shan't run away," said Maggie; "I shall live an old maid, and you must live an old bachelor, until grandma—"
She did not have time to finish the sentence ere Henry commenced unfolding the following plan:
"It is necessary," he said, "for either myself or Mr. Douglas to go to Cuba; and as Rose's health makes a change of climate advisable for her, George has proposed to me to go and take my sister there for the winter. And, Maggie," he continued, "will you go, too? We are to sail the middle of October, stopping for a few weeks in Florida, until the unhealthy season in Havana is passed. I will see your grandmother to-morrow morning—will once more honorably ask her for your hand, and if she still refuses, as you think she will, it cannot surely be wrong in you to consult your own happiness instead of her prejudices. I will meet you at old Hagar's cabin at the time appointed. Rose and my aunt, who is to accompany her, will be in New York, whither we will go immediately. A few moments more and you will be my wife, and beyond the control of your grandmother. Do you approve my plan, Maggie, darling? Will you go?"
Maggie could not answer him then, for an elopement was something from which she instinctively shrunk, and with a faint hope that her grandmother might consent she went back to her sister's room, where she had not yet been missed. Very rapidly the remainder of the afternoon passed away, and at an early hour, wishing to know "exactly how she was going to look," Maggie commenced her toilet. Theo, too, desirous of displaying her white satin as long as possible, began to dress; while Madam Conway, in no haste to don her purple satin, which was uncomfortably tight, amused herself by watching the passers-by, nodding at intervals, in her chair.
While thus occupied, a perfumed note was brought to her, the contents of which elicited from her an exclamation of surprise.
"Can it be possible!" she said; and thrusting the note into her pocket she hastily left the room.
She was gone a long, long time; and when at last she returned, she was evidently much excited, paying no attention whatever to Theo, who, in her bridal robes, looked charming, but minutely inspecting Maggie, to see if in her adornings there was aught out of its place. Her dress was faultless, and she looked so radiantly beautiful, as she stood before her grandmother, that the old lady kissed her fondly, whispering, as she did so, "You are indeed beautiful!" It was a long time ere Madam Conway commenced her own toilet, and then she proceeded so slowly that George Douglas became impatient, and she finally suggested that he and Theo should go without her, sending the carriage back for herself and Maggie. To this proposition he at last yielded; and when they were left alone Madam Conway greatly accelerated her movements, dressing herself in a few moments, and then, much to Maggie's surprise, going below without a word of explanation. A few moments only elapsed ere a servant was sent to Maggie, saying that her presence was desired at No. 40, a small private parlor adjoining the public drawing rooms.
"What can it mean? Is it possible that Henry is there?" Maggie asked herself, as with a beating heart she descended the stairs.
A moment more, and Maggie stood on the threshhold of No. 40. Seated upon the sofa was Madam Conway, her purple satin seeming to have taken a wide sweep, and her face betokening the immense degree of satisfaction she felt in being there with the stylish, elegant-looking stranger who stood at her side, with his deep, expressive eyes fixed upon the door expectantly. Maggie knew him in a moment—knew it was Arthur Carrollton; and, turning pale, she started backward, while he advanced forward, and, offering her his hand, looked down upon her with a winning smile, saying, as he did so: "Excuse my familiarity. You are Maggie Miller, I am sure."
For an instant Maggie could not reply, but soon becoming composed she received the stranger gracefully, and then taking the chair he politely brought her she listened while her grandmother told that he had arrived at Montreal two weeks before; that he had reached Hillsdale that morning, an hour or two after their departure, and, learning their destination, had followed them in the cars; that she had taken the liberty of informing Mrs. Morton of his arrival, and that lady had of course extended to him an invitation to be present at her party.
"Which invitation I accept, provided Miss Maggie allows me to be her escort," said the young man, and again his large black eyes rested admiringly upon her.
Maggie had anticipated a long, quiet talk with Henry Warner, and, wishing the Englishman anywhere but there, she answered coldly, "I cannot well decline your escort, Mr. Carrollton, so of course I accept it."
Madam Conway bit her lip, but Mr. Carrollton, who was prepared for anything from Maggie Miller, was not in the least displeased, and, consulting his diamond-set watch, which pointed to nearly ten, he asked if it were not time to go.
"Certainly," said Madam Conway. "You remain here, Maggie; I will bring down your shawl," and she glided from the room, leaving them purposely alone.
Maggie was a good deal astonished, slightly embarrassed, and a little provoked, all of which Arthur Carrollton readily saw; but this did not prevent his talking to her, and during the few minutes of Madam Conway's absence he decided that neither Margaret's beauty, nor yet her originality, had been overrated by her partial grandmother, while Maggie, on her part, mentally pronounced him "the finest-looking, the most refined, the most gentlemanly, the proudest, and the hatefulest man she had ever seen!"