Then her mood would change, and motioning Theo to her side she would say to her, "Kiss me once, Theo, just as you used to do when I was Maggie Miller."
Towards Arthur Carrollton she from the first manifested fear, shuddering whenever he approached her, and still exhibiting signs of uneasiness if he left her sight. "He hates me," she said, "hates me for what I could not help;" and when, as he often did, he came to her bedside, speaking words of love, she would answer mournfully: "Don't, Mr. Carrollton; your pride is stronger than your love. You will hate me when you know all."
Thus two weeks went by, and then with the first May day reason returned again, bringing life and strength to the invalid, and joy to those who had so anxiously watched over her. Almost her first rational question was for Hagar, asking if she had been there.
"She is confined to her bed with inflammatory rheumatism," answered Madam Conway; "but she inquires for you every day, they say; and once when told you could not live she started to crawl on her hands and knees to see you, but fainted near the gate, and was carried back."
"Poor old woman!" murmured Maggie, the tears rolling down her cheeks, as she thought how strong must be the love that half-crazed creature bore her, and how little it was returned, for every feeling of her nature revolted from claiming a near relationship with one whom she had hitherto regarded as a servant. The secret, too, seemed harder to divulge, and day by day she put it off, saying to them when they asked what had so much affected her that she could not tell them yet—she must wait till she was stronger.
So Theo went back to Worcester as mystified as ever, and Maggie was left much alone with Arthur Carrollton, who strove in various ways to win her from the melancholy into which she had fallen. All day long she would sit by the open window, seemingly immovable, her large eyes, now intensely black, fixed upon vacancy, and her white face giving no sign of the fierce struggle within, save when Madam Conway, coming to her side, would lay her hand caressingly on her in token of sympathy. Then, indeed, her lips would quiver, and turning her head away, she would say, "Don't touch me—don't!"
To Arthur Carrollton she would listen with apparent composure, though often as he talked her long, tapering nails left their impress in her flesh, so hard she strove to seem indifferent. Once when they were left together alone he drew her to his side, and bending very low, so that his lips almost touched her marble cheek, he told her of his love, and how full of anguish had been his heart when he thought that she would die.
"But God kindly gave you back to me," he said; "and now, my precious
Margaret, will you be my wife? Will you go with me to my English home,
from which I have tarried now too long because I would not leave you?
Will Maggie answer me?" and he folded her lovingly in his arms.
Oh, how could she tell him No, when every fiber of her heart thrilled with the answer Yes. She mistook him—mistook the character of Arthur Carrollton, for, though pride was strong within him, he loved the beautiful girl who lay trembling in his arms better than he loved his pride; and had she told him then who and what she was, he would not have deemed it a disgrace to love a child of Hagar Warren. But Margaret did not know him, and when he said again, "Will Maggie answer me?" there came from her lips a piteous, wailing cry, and turning her face away she answered mournfully: "No, Mr. Carrollton, no, I cannot be your wife. It breaks my heart to tell you so; but if you knew what I know, you would never have spoken to me words of love. You would have rather thrust me from you, for indeed I am unworthy."
"Don't you love me, Maggie?" Mr. Carrollton said, and in the tones of his voice there was so much tenderness that Maggie burst into tears, and, involuntarily resting her head upon his bosom, answered sadly: "I love you so much, Arthur Carrollton, that I would die a hundred deaths could that make me worthy of you, as not long ago I thought I was. But it cannot be. Something terrible has come between us."
"Tell me what it is. Let me share your sorrow," he said; but Maggie only answered: "Not yet, not yet! Let me live where you are a little longer. Then I will tell you all, and go away forever."
This was all the satisfaction he could obtain; but after a time she promised that if he would not mention the subject to her until the first of June, she would then tell him everything; and satisfied with a promise which he knew would be kept, Mr. Carrollton waited impatiently for the appointed time, while Maggie, too, counted each sun as it rose and set, bringing nearer and nearer a trial she so much dreaded.
CHAPTER XX.
THE RESULT.
Two days only remained ere the first of June, and in the solitude of her chamber Maggie was weeping bitterly. "How can I tell them who I am?" she thought. "How bear their pitying scorn, when they learn that she whom they call Maggie Miller has no right to that name?—that Hagar Warren's blood is flowing in her veins?—and Madam Conway thinks so much of that! Oh, why was Hagar left to do me this great wrong? why did she take me from the pine-board cradle where she says I lay, and make me what I was not born to be?" and, falling on her knees, the wretched girl prayed that it might prove a dream from which she would ere long awake.
Alas for thee, poor Maggie Miller! It is not a dream, but a stern reality; and you who oft have spurned at birth and family, why murmur now when both are taken from you? Are you not still the same,—beautiful,—accomplished, and refined,—and can you ask for more? Strange that theory and practice so seldom should accord. And yet it was not the degradation which Maggie felt so keenly, it was rather the loss of love she feared; without that the blood of royalty could not avail to make her happy.
Maggie was a warm-hearted girl, and she loved the stately lady she had been wont to call her grandmother with a filial, clinging love which could not be severed, and still this love was naught compared to what she felt for Arthur Carrollton, and the giving up of him was the hardest part of all. But it must be done, she thought; he had told her once that were she Hagar Warren's grandchild he should not be riding with her—how much less, then, would he make that child his wife! and rather than meet the look of proud disdain on his face when first she stood confessed before him, she resolved to go away where no one had ever heard of her or Hagar Warren. She would leave behind a letter telling why she went, and commending to Madam Conway's care poor Hagar, who had been sorely punished for her sin. "But whither shall I go, and what shall I do when I get there?" she cried, trembling at the thoughts of a world of which she knew so little. Then, as she remembered how many young girls of her age went out as teachers, she determined to go at all events. "It will be better than staying here where I have no claim," she thought; and, nerving herself for the task, she sat down to write the letter which, on the first of June, should tell to Madam Conway and Arthur Carrollton the story of her birth.
It was a harder task than she supposed, the writing that farewell, for it seemed like severing every hallowed tie. Three times she wrote "My dear grandma," then with a throb of anguish she dashed her pen across the revered name, and wrote simply "Madam Conway." It was a rambling, impassioned letter, full of tender love—of hope destroyed—of deep despair—and though it shadowed forth no expectation that Madam Conway or Mr. Carrollton would ever take her to their hearts again, it begged of them most touchingly to think sometimes of "Maggie" when she was gone forever. Hagar was then commended to Madam Conway's forgiveness and care. "She is old," wrote Maggie, "her life is nearly ended, and if you have in your heart one feeling of pity for her who used to call you grandma, bestow it, I pray you, on poor old Hagar Warren."
The letter was finished, and then suddenly remembering Hagar's words, that "all had not been told," and feeling it her duty to see once more the woman who had brought her so much sorrow, Maggie stole cautiously from the house, and was soon walking down the woodland road, slowly, sadly, for the world had changed to her since last she trod that path. Maggie, too, was changed, and when at last she stood before Hagar, who was now able to sit up, the latter could scarcely recognize in the pale, haggard woman the blooming, merry-hearted girl once known as Maggie Miller.
"Margaret!" she cried, "you have come again—come to forgive your poor old grand—No, no," she added, as she saw the look of pain flash over Maggie's face, "I'll never insult you with that name. Only say that you forgive me, will you, Miss Margaret?" and the trembling voice was choked with sobs, while the aged form shook as with a palsied stroke.
Hagar had been ill. Exposure to the damp air on that memorable night had brought on a second severe attack of rheumatism, which had bent her nearly double. Anxiety for Margaret, too, had wasted her to a skeleton, and her thin, sharp face, now of a corpse-like pallor, contrasted strangely with her eyes, from which the wildness all was gone. Touched with pity, Maggie drew a chair to her side, and thus replied: "I do forgive you, Hagar, for I know that what you did was done in love; but by telling me what you have you've ruined all my hopes of happiness. In the new scenes to which I go, and the new associations I shall form, I may become contented with my lot, but never can I forget that I once was Maggie Miller."
"Magaret," gasped Hagar, and in her dim eye there was something of its olden fire, "if by new associations you mean Henry Warner, it must not be. Alas, that I should tell this! but Henry is your brother—your father's only son. Oh, horror! horror!" and dreading what Margaret would say, she covered her face with her cramped, distorted hands.
But Margaret was not so much affected as Hagar had anticipated. She had suffered severely, and could not now be greatly moved. There was an involuntary shudder as she thought of her escape, and then her next feeling was one of satisfaction in knowing that she was not quite friendless and alone, for Henry would protect her, and Rose, indeed, would be to her a sister.
"Henry Warner my brother!" she exclaimed; "how came you by this knowledge?" And very briefly Hagar explained to her what she knew, saying that Hester had told her of two young children, but she had forgotten entirely of their existence, and now that she was reminded of it she could not help fancying that Hester said the stepchild was a boy. But the peddler knew, of course, and she must have forgotten.
"When the baby they thought was you died," said Hagar, "I wrote to the minister in Meriden, telling him of it, but I did not sign my name, and I thought that was the last I should ever hear of it. Why don't you curse me?" she continued. "Haven't I taken from you your intended husband, as well as your name?"
Maggie understood perfectly now why the secret had been revealed, and involuntarily she exclaimed, "Oh, had I told you first, this never need have been!" and then hurriedly she explained to the repentant Hagar how at the very moment when the dread confession was made she, Maggie Miller, was free from Henry Warner.
From the window Maggie saw in the distance the servant who had charge of Hagar, and, dreading the presence of a third person, she arose to go. Offering her hand to Hagar, she said: "Good-by. I may never see you again, but if I do not, remember that I forgive you freely."
"You are not going away, Maggie. Oh, are you going away!" and the crippled arms were stretched imploringly towards Maggie, who answered: "Yes, Hagar, I must go. Honor requires me to tell Madam Conway who I am, and after that you know that I can not stay. I shall go to my brother."
Three times old Hagar essayed to speak, and at last between a whisper and a moan, she found strength to say: "Will you kiss me once, Maggie darling? 'Twill be something to remember, in the lonesome nights when I am all alone. Just once, Maggie! Will you?"
Maggie could not refuse, and gliding to the bowed woman's side she put back the soft hair from off the wrinkled brow, and left there token of her forgiveness.
* * * * *
The last May sun had set, and ere the first June morning rose Maggie Miller would be nowhere found in the home her presence had made so bright. Alone, with no eye upon her save that of the Most High, she had visited the two graves, and, while her heart was bleeding at every pore, had wept her last adieu over the sleeping dust so long held sacred as her mother's. Then kneeling at the other grave, she murmured, "Forgive me, Hester Hamilton, if in this parting hour my heart clings most to her whose memory I was first taught to revere; and if in the better world you know and love each other—oh, will both bless and pity me, poor, wretched Maggie Miller!"
Softly the night air moved through the pine that overshadowed the humble grave, while the moonlight, flashing from the tall marble, which stood a sentinel over the other mound, bathed Maggie's upturned face as with a flood of glory, and her throbbing heart grew still as if indeed at that hushed moment the two mothers had come to bless their child. The parting with the dead was over, and Margaret sat again in her room, waiting until all was still about the old stone house. She did not add to her letter another line telling of her discovery, for she did not think of it; her mind was too intent upon escaping unobserved; and when sure the family had retired she moved cautiously down the stairs, noiselessly unlocked the door, and without once daring to look back, lest she should waver in her purpose, she went forth, heartbroken and alone, from what for eighteen happy years had been her home. Very rapidly she proceeded, coming at last to an open field through which the railroad ran, the depot being nearly a quarter of a mile away. Not until then had she reflected that her appearance at the station at that hour of the night would excite suspicion, and she was beginning to feel uneasy, when suddenly around a curve the cars appeared in view. Fearing lest she should be too late, she quickened her footsteps, when to her great surprise she saw that the train was stopping! But not for her they waited; in the bright moonlight the engineer had discovered a body lying across the track, and had stopped in time to save the life of a man, who, stupefied with drunkenness, had fallen asleep. The movement startled the passengers, many of whom alighted and gathered around the inebriate.
In the meantime Margaret had come near, and, knowing she could not now reach the depot in time, she mingled unobserved in the crowd, and entering the rear car, took her seat near the door. The train at last moved on, and as at the station no one save the agent was in waiting, it is not strange that the conductor passed unheeded the veiled figure which in the dark corner sat ready to pay her fare.
"He will come to me by and by," thought Maggie, but he did not, and when Worcester was reached the fare was still uncollected. Bewildered and uncertain what to do next, she stepped upon the platform, deciding finally to remain at the depot until morning, when a train would leave for Leominster, where she confidently expected to find her brother. Taking a seat in the ladies' room, she abandoned herself to her sorrow, wondering what Theo would say could she see her then. But Theo, though dreaming it may be of Maggie, dreamed not that she was near, and so the night wore on, Margaret sleeping towards daylight, and dreaming, too, of Arthur Carrollton, who she thought had followed her—nay, was bending over her now and whispering in her ear, "Wake, Maggie, wake."
Starting up, she glanced anxiously around, uttering a faint cry when she saw that it was not Arthur Carrollton, but a dark, rough-looking stranger, who rather rudely asked her where she wished to go.
"To Leominster," she answered, turning her face fully towards the man, who became instantly respectful, telling her when the train would leave, and saying that she must go to another depot, at the same time asking if she had not better wait at some hotel.
But Maggie preferred going at once to the Fitchburg depot, which she accordingly did, and drawing her veil over her face, lest some one of her few acquaintances in the city should recognize her, she sat there until the time appointed for the cars to leave. Then, weary and faint, she entered the train, her spirits in a measure rising as she felt that she was drawing near to those who would love her for what she was and not for what she had been. Rose would comfort her, and already her heart bounded with the thought of seeing one whom she believed to be her brother's wife, for Henry had written that ere his homeward voyage was made Rose would be his bride.
Ah, Maggie! there is for you a greater happiness in store—not a brother, but a sister—your father's child is there to greet your coming. And even at this early hour her snow-white fingers are arranging the fair June blossoms into bouquets, with which she adorns her home, saying to him who hovers at her side that somebody, she knows not whom, is surely coming to-day; and then, with a blush stealing over her cheek, she adds, "I wish it might be Margaret"; while Henry, with a peculiar twist of his comical mouth, winds his arm around her waist, and playfully responds, "Anyone save her."
CHAPTER XXI.
THE SISTERS.
On a cool piazza overlooking a handsome flower garden the breakfast table was tastefully arranged. It was Rose's idea to have it there, and in her cambric wrapper, her golden curls combed smoothly back, and her blue eyes shining with the light of a new joy, she occupies her accustomed seat beside one who for several happy weeks has called her his, loving her more and more each day, and wondering how thoughts of any other could ever have filled his heart. There was much to be done about his home, so long deserted, and as Rose was determined upon a trip to the seaside he had made arrangements to be absent from his business for two months or more, and was now enjoying all the happiness of a quiet, domestic life, free from care of any kind. He had heard of Maggie's illness, but she was better now, he supposed, and when Theo hinted vaguely that a marriage between her and Arthur Carrollton was not at all improbable, he hoped it would be so, for the Englishman, he knew, was far better adapted to Margaret than he had ever been. Of Theo's hints he was speaking to Rose as they sat together at breakfast, and she had answered, "It will be a splendid match," when the doorbell rang, and the servant announced, "A lady in the parlor, who asks for Mr. Warner."
"I told you someone would come," said Rose. "Do, pray, see who it is.
How does she look, Janet?"
"Tall, white as a ghost, with big black eyes," was Janet's answer; and, with his curiosity awakened, Henry Warner started for the parlor, Rose following on tiptoe, and listening through the half-closed door to what their visitor might say.
Margaret had experienced no difficulty in finding the house of Mrs. Warner, which seemed to her a second Paradise, so beautiful and cool it looked, nestled amid the tall, green forest trees. Everything around it betokened the fine taste of its occupants, and Maggie, as she reflected that she too was nearly connected with this family, felt her wounded pride in a measure soothed, for it was surely no disgrace to claim such people as her friends. With a beating heart she rang the bell, asking for Mr. Warner, and now, trembling in every limb, she awaited his coming. He was not prepared to meet her, and at first he did not know her, she was so changed; but when, throwing aside her bonnet, she turned her face so that the light from the window opposite shone fully upon her, he recognized her in a moment, and exclaimed, "Margaret—Margaret Miller! why are you here?"
The words reached Rose's ear, and darting forward she stood within the door, just as Margaret, staggering a step or two towards Henry, answered passionately, "I have come to tell you what I myself but recently have learned"; and wringing her hands despairingly, she continued, "I am not Maggie Miller, I am not anybody; I am Hagar Warren's grandchild, the child of her daughter and your own father! Oh, Henry, don't you see it? I am your sister. Take me as such, will you? Love me as such, or I shall surely die. I have nobody now in the wide world but you. They are all gone, all—Madam Conway, Theo too, and—and—" She could not speak that name. It died upon her lips, and tottering to a chair she would have fallen had not Henry caught her in his arms.
Leading her to the sofa, while Rose, perfectly confounded, still stood within the door, he said to the half-crazed girl: "Margaret, I do not understand you. I never had a sister, and my father died when I was six months old. There must be some mistake. Will you tell me what you mean?"
Bewildered and perplexed, Margaret began a hasty repetition of Hagar's story, but ere it was three-fourths told there came from the open door a wild cry of delight, and quick as lightning a fairy form flew across the floor, white arms were twined round Maggie's neck, kiss after kiss was pressed upon her lips, and Rose's voice was in her ear, never before half so sweet as now, when it murmured soft and low to the weary girl: "My sister Maggie—mine you are—the child of my own father, for I was Rose Hamilton, called Warner, first to please my aunt, and next to please my Henry. Oh, Maggie darling, I am so happy now!" and the little snowy hands smoothed caressingly the bands of hair, so unlike her own fair waving tresses.
It was, indeed, a time of almost perfect bliss to them all, and for a moment Margaret forgot her pain, which, had Hagar known the truth, need not have come to her. But she scarcely regretted it now, when she felt Rose Warner's heart throbbing against her own, and knew their father was the same.
"You are tired," Rose said, at length, when much had been said by both. "You must have rest, and then I will bring to you my aunt, our aunt, Maggie—our father's sister. She has been a mother to me. She will be one to you. But stay," she continued, "you have had no breakfast. I will bring you some," and she tripped lightly from the room.
Maggie followed her with swimming eyes, then turning to Henry she said, "You are very happy, I am sure."
"Yes, very," he answered, coming to her side. "Happy in my wife, happy in my newly found sister," and he laid his hand on hers with something of his former familiarity.
But the olden feeling was gone, and Maggie could now meet his glance without a blush, while he could talk with her as calmly as if she had never been aught to him save the sister of his wife. Thus often changeth the human heart's first love.
After a time Rose returned, bearing a silver tray heaped with the most tempting viands: but Maggie's heart was too full to eat, and after drinking a cup of the fragrant black tea, which Rose herself had made, she laid her head upon the pillow which Henry brought, and, with Rose sitting by, holding lovingly her hand, she fell into a quiet slumber. For several hours she slept, and when she awoke at last the sun was shining in at the western window, casting over the floor a glimmering light, and reminding her so forcibly of the dancing shadows on the grass which grew around the old stone house that her eyes filled with tears, and, thinking herself alone, she murmured, "Will it never be my home again?"
A sudden movement, the rustling of a dress, startled her, and lifting up her head she saw standing near a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman, who, she rightly guessed, was Mrs. Warner, her own aunt.
"Maggie," the lady said, laying her hand on the fevered brow, "I have heard a strange tale to-day. Heretofore I had supposed Rose to be my only child, but though you take me by surprise you are not the less welcome. There is room in my heart for you, Maggie Miller, room for the youngest-born of my only brother. You are somewhat like him, too," she continued, "though more like your mother;" and with the mention of that name a flush stole over the lady's face, for she, too, was very proud, and her brother's marriage with a servant girl had never been quite forgiven.
Mrs. Warner had seen much of the world, and Maggie knew her to be a woman of refinement, a woman of whom even Madam Conway would not be ashamed; and, winding her arms around her neck, she said impulsively, "I am glad you are my aunt; and you will love me, I am sure, even if I am poor Hagar's grandchild."
Mrs. Warner knew nothing of Hagar save from Henry's amusing description, the entire truth of which she somewhat doubted; but she knew that whatever Hagar Warren might be, the beautiful girl before her was not answerable for it, and very kindly she tried to soothe her, telling her how happy they would be together. "Rose will leave me in the autumn," she said, "and without you I should be all alone." Of Hagar, too, she spoke kindly and considerately, and Maggie, listening to her, felt somewhat reconciled to the fate which had made her what she was. Still, there was much of pride to overcome ere she could calmly think of herself as other than Madam Conway's grandchild; and when that afternoon, as Henry and Rose were sitting with her, the latter spoke of her mother, saying she had a faint remembrance of a tall, handsome girl who sang her to sleep on the night when her own mother died, there came a visible shadow over Maggie's face, and instantly changing the conversation she asked why Henry had never told her anything definite concerning himself and family.
For a moment Henry seemed embarrassed. Both the Hamiltons and the Warners were very aristocratic in their feelings, and by mutual consent the name of Hester Warren was by them seldom spoken. Consequently, if there existed a reason for Henry's silence with regard to his own and Rose's history, it was that he disliked bringing up a subject he had been taught to avoid, both by his aunt and the mother of Mr. Hamilton, who for several years after her son's death had lived with her daughter in Leominster, where she finally died. This, however, he could not say to Margaret, and after a little hesitancy he answered laughingly, "You never asked me for any particulars; and, then, you know, I was more agreeably occupied than I should have been had I spent my time in enlightening you with regard to our genealogy"; and the saucy mouth smiled archly, first on Rose, and then on Margaret, both of whom blushed slightly, the one suspecting he had not told her the whole truth, and the other knowing he had not.
Very considerate was Rose of Maggie's feelings and not again that afternoon did she speak of Hester, though she talked much of their father; and Margaret, listening to his praises, felt herself insensibly drawn towards this new claimant for her filial love. "I wish I could have seen him," she said; and, starting to her feet, Rose answered: "Strange I did not think of it before. We have his portrait. Come this way," and she led the half-unwilling Maggie into an adjoining room, where from the wall a portly, good-humored-looking man gazed down upon the sisters, his eyes seeming to rest with mournful tenderness on the face of her whom in life they had not looked upon. He seemed older than Maggie had supposed, and the hair upon his head was white, reminding her of Hagar. But she did not for this turn away from him. There was something pleasing in the mild expression of his face, and she whispered faintly, "'Tis my father."
On the right of this portrait was another, the picture of a woman, in whose curling lip and soft brown eyes Maggie recognized the mother of Henry. To the left was another still, and she gazed upon the angel face, with eyes of violet blue, and hair of golden brown, on which the fading sunlight now was falling, encircling it as it were with a halo of glory.
"You are much like her," she said to Rose, who made no answer, for she was thinking of another picture, which years before had been banished to the garret by her haughty grandmother, as unworthy a place beside him who had petted and caressed the young girl of plebeian birth and kindred.
"I can make amends for it, though," thought Rose, returning with Maggie to the parlor. Then, seeking out her husband, she held with him a whispered consultation, the result of which was that on the morrow there was a rummaging in the garret, an absence from home for an hour or two, and when about noon she returned there was a pleased expression on her face, as if she had accomplished her purpose, whatever it might have been.
All that morning Maggie had been restless and uneasy, wandering listlessly from room to room, looking anxiously down the street, starting nervously at the sound of every footstep, while her cheeks alternately flushed and then grew pale as the day passed on. Dinner being over she sat alone in the parlor, her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and her thoughts away with one who she vaguely hoped would have followed her ere this. True, she had added no postscript to tell him of her new discovery; but Hagar knew, and he would go to her for a confirmation of the letter. She would tell him where Maggie was gone, and he, if his love could survive that shock, would follow her thither; nay, would be there that very day, and Maggie's heart grew wearier, fainter, as time wore on and he did not come. "I might have known it," she whispered sadly. "I knew that he would nevermore think of me," and she wept silently over her ruined love.
"Maggie, sister," came to her ear, and Rose was at her side. "I have a surprise for you, darling. Can you bear it now?"
Oh, how eagerly poor Maggie Miller looked up in Rose's face! The car whistle had sounded half an hour before. Could it be that he had come? Was he there? Did he love her still? No, Maggie, no; the surprise awaiting you is of a far different nature, and the tears flow afresh when Rose, in reply to the question "What is it, darling?" answers, "It is this," at the same time placing in Maggie's hand an ambrotype which she bade her examine. With a feeling of keen disappointment Maggie opened the casing, involuntarily shutting her eyes as if to gather strength for what she was to see.
It was a young face—a handsome face—a face much like her own, while in the curve of the upper lip and the expression of the large black eyes there was a look like Hagar Warren. They had met together thus, the one a living reality, the other a semblance of the dead, and she who held that picture trembled violently. There was a fierce struggle within, the wildly beating heart throbbing for one moment with a newborn love, and then rebelling against taking that shadow, beautiful though it was, in place of her whose memory she had so long revered.
"Who is it, Maggie?" Rose asked, leaning over her shoulder.
Maggie knew full well whose face it was she looked upon, but not yet could she speak that name so interwoven with memories of another, and she answered mournfully, "It is Hester Hamilton."
"Yes, Margaret, your mother," said Rose. "I never called her by that name, but I respect her for your sake. She was my father's pet, so it has been said, for he was comparatively old, and she his young girl-wife."
"Where did you get this?" Maggie asked; and, coloring crimson, Rose replied, "We have always had her portrait, but grandmother, who was very old and foolishly proud about some things, was offended at our father's last marriage, and when after his death the portraits were brought here, she—Forgive her, Maggie—she did not know you, or she would not have done it—"
"I know," interrupted Maggie. "She despised this Hester Warren, and consigned her portrait to some spot from which you have brought it and had this taken from it."
"Not despised her!" cried Rose, in great distress, as she saw a dark expression stealing over the face of Maggie, in whose heart a chord of sympathy had been struck when she thought of her mother banished from her father's side. "Grandma could not despise her," continued Rose; "she was so good, so beautiful."
"Yes, she was beautiful," murmured Maggie, gazing earnestly upon the fair, round face, the soft, black eyes, and raven hair of her who for years had slept beneath the shadow of the Hillsdale woods. "Oh, I wish I were dead like her!" she exclaimed at last, closing the ambrotype and laying it upon the table. "I wish I was lying in that little grave in the place of her who should have borne my name, and been what I once was;" and bowing her face upon her hands she wept bitterly, while Rose tried in vain to comfort her. "I am not sorry you are my sister," sobbed Margaret through her tears. "That's the only comfort I have left me now; but, Rose, I love Arthur Carrollton so much—oh, so much, and how can I give him up!"
"If he is the noble, true-hearted man he looks to be, he will not give you up," answered Rose, and then for the first time since this meeting she questioned Margaret concerning Mr. Carrollton and the relations existing between them. "He will not cast you off," she said, when Margaret had told her all she had to tell. "He may be proud, but he will cling to you still. He will follow you, too—not to-day, perhaps, nor to-morrow, but ere long he will surely come;" and, listening to her sister's cheering words, Maggie herself grew hopeful, and that evening talked animatedly with Henry and Rose of a trip to the seaside that they were intending to make. "You will go, too, Maggie," said Rose, caressing her sister's pale cheek, and whispering in her ear, "Aunt Susan will be here to tell Mr. Carrollton where you are, if he does not come before we go, which I am sure he will."
Maggie tried to think so too, and her sleep that night was sweeter than it had been before for many weeks—but the next day came, and the next, and Maggie's eyes grew dim with watching and with tears, for up and down the road, as far as she could see, there came no trace of him for whom she waited.
"I might have known it; it was foolish of me to think otherwise," she sighed; and, turning sadly from the window where all the afternoon she had been sitting, she laid her head wearily upon the lap of Rose.
"Maggie," said Henry, "I am going to Worcester to-morrow, and perhaps
George can tell me something of Mr. Carrollton."
For a moment Maggie's heart throbbed with delight at the thought of hearing from him, even though she heard that he would leave her. But anon her pride rose strong within her. She had told Hagar twice of her destination, Hagar had told him, and if he chose he would have followed her ere this; so somewhat bitterly she said: "Don't speak to George of me. Don't tell him I am here. Promise me, will you?"
The promise was given, and the next morning, which was Saturday, Henry started for Worcester on the early train. The day seemed long to Maggie, and when at nightfall he came to them again it was difficult to tell which was the more pleased at his return, Margaret or Rose.
"Did you see Theo?" asked the former; and Henry replied: "George told me she had gone to Hillsdale. Madam Conway is very sick."
"For me! for me! She's sick with mourning for me!" cried Maggie. "Darling grandma! she does love me still, and I will go home to her at once."
Then the painful thought rushed over her: "If she wished for me, she would send. It's the humiliation, not the love, that makes her sick. They have cast me off—grandma, Theo, all, all!" and, sinking upon the lounge, she wept aloud.
"Margaret," said Henry, coming to her side, "but for my promise
I should have talked to George of you, for there was a troubled
expression on his face when he asked me if I had heard from
Hillsdale."
"What did you say?" asked Maggie, holding her breath to catch the answer, which was, "I told him you had not written to me since my return from Cuba, and then he looked as if he would say more, but a customer called him away, and our conversation was not resumed."
For a moment Maggie was silent. Then she said: "I am glad you did not intrude me upon him. If Theo has gone to Hillsdale, she knows that I am here, and does not care to follow me. It is the disgrace that troubles them, not the losing me!" and again burying her head in the cushions of the lounge, she wept bitterly. It was useless for Henry and Rose to try to comfort her, telling her it was possible that Hagar had told nothing. "And if so," said Henry, "you well know that I am the last one to whom you would be expected to flee for protection." Margaret would not listen. She was resolved upon being unhappy, and during the long hours of that night she tossed wakefully upon her pillow, and when the morning came she was too weak to rise; so she kept her room, listening to the music of the Sabbath bells, which to her seemed sadly saying, "Home, home." "Alas! I have no home," she said, turning away to weep, for in the tolling of those bells there came to her no voice whispering of the darkness, the desolation, and the sorrow that were in the home for which she so much mourned.
Thus the day wore on, and ere another week was gone Rose insisted upon a speedy removal to the seashore, notwithstanding it was so early in the season, for by this means she hoped that Maggie's health would be improved. Accordingly, Henry went once more to Worcester, ostensibly for money, but really to see if George Douglas now would speak to him of Margaret. But George was in New York, they said; and, somewhat disappointed, Henry went back to Leominster, where everything was in readiness for their journey. Monday was fixed upon for their departure, and at an early hour Margaret looked back on what had been to her a second home, smiling faintly as Rose whispered to her cheerily, "I have a strong presentiment that somewhere in our travels we shall meet with Arthur Carrollton."
CHAPTER XXII.
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
Come now over the hills to the westward. Come to the Hillsdale woods, to the stone house by the mill, where all the day long there is heard but one name, the servants breathing it softly and low, as if she who had borne it were dead, the sister, dim-eyed now, and paler faced, whispering it oft to herself, while the lady, so haughty and proud, repeats it again and again, shuddering as naught but the echoing walls reply to the heartbroken cry of, "Margaret, Margaret, where are you now?"
Yes, there was mourning in that household—mourning for the lost one, the darling, the pet of them all.
Brightly had the sun arisen on that June morning which brought to them their sorrow, while the birds in the tall forest trees caroled as gayly as if no storm-cloud were hovering near. At an early hour Mr. Carrollton had arisen, thinking, as he looked forth from his window, "She will tell me all to-day," and smiling as he thought how easy and pleasant would be the task of winning her back to her olden gayety. Madam Conway, too, was unusually excited, and very anxiously she listened for the first sound of Maggie's footsteps on the stairs.
"She sleeps late," she thought, when breakfast was announced, and taking her accustomed seat she bade a servant see if Margaret were ill.
"She is not there," was the report the girl brought back.
"Not there!" cried Mr. Carrollton.
"Not there!" repeated Madam Conway, a shadowy foreboding of evil stealing over her. "She seldom walks at this early hour," she continued; and, rising, she went herself to Margaret's room.
Everything was in perfect order, the bed was undisturbed, the chamber empty; Margaret was gone, and on the dressing-table lay the fatal letter telling why she went. At first Madam Conway did not see it; but it soon caught her eye, and tremblingly she opened it, reading but the first line, "I am going away forever."
Then a loud shriek rang through the silent room, penetrating to Arthur Carrollton's listening ear, and bringing him at once to her side. With the letter still in her hand, and her face of a deathly hue, and her eyes flashing with fear, Madam Conway turned to him as he entered, saying, "Margaret has gone, left us forever—killed herself it may be! Read!" And she handed him the letter, herself bending eagerly forward to hear what he might say.
But she listened in vain. With lightning rapidity Arthur Carrollton read what Maggie had written—read that she, his idol, the chosen bride of his bosom, was the daughter of a servant, the grandchild of old Hagar! And for this she had fled from his presence, fled because she knew of the mighty pride which now, in the first bitter moment of his agony, did indeed rise up, a barrier between himself and the beautiful girl he loved so well. Had she lain dead before him, dead in all her youthful beauty, he could have folded her in his arms, and then buried her from his sight, with a feeling of perfect happiness compared to that which he now felt.
"Oh, Maggie, my lost one, can it be!" he whispered to himself, and pressing his hand upon his chest, which heaved with strong emotion, he staggered to a seat, while the perspiration stood in beaded drops upon his forehead and around his lips.
"What is it, Mr. Carrollton? 'Tis something dreadful, sure," said Mrs. Jeffrey, appearing in the door, but Madam Conway motioned her away, and, tottering to his side, said, "Read it to me—read."
The Sound of her voice recalled his wandering mind, and covering his face with his hands he moaned in anguish; then, growing suddenly calm, he snatched up the letter, which had fallen to the floor, and read it aloud; while Madam Conway, stupefied with horror, sank at his feet, and clasping her hands above her head, rocked to and fro, but made no word of comment. Far down the long ago her thoughts were straying, and gathering up many bygone scenes which told her that what she heard was true.
"Yes, 'tis true," she groaned; and then, powerless to speak another word, she laid her head upon a chair, while Mr. Carrollton, preferring to be alone, sought the solitude of his own room, where unobserved he could wrestle with his sorrow and conquer his inborn pride, which whispered to him that a Carrollton must not wed a bride so far beneath him.
Only a moment, though, and then the love he bore for Maggie Miller rolled back upon him with an overwhelming power, while his better judgment, with that love, came hand in hand, pleading for the fair young girl, who, now that he had lost her, seemed a thousandfold dearer than before. But he had not lost her; he would find her. She was Maggie Miller still to him, and though old Hagar's blood were in her veins he would not give her up. This resolution once made, it could not be shaken, and when half an hour or more was passed he walked with firm, unfaltering footsteps back to the apartment where Madam Conway still sat upon the floor, her head resting upon the chair, and her frame convulsed with grief.
Her struggle had been a terrible one, and it was not over yet, for with her it was more than a matter of pride and love. Her daughter's rights had been set at naught; a wrong had been done to the dead; the child who slept beneath the pine had been neglected; nay, in life, had been, perhaps, despised for an intruder, for one who had no right to call her grandmother; and shudderingly she cried, "Why was it suffered thus to be?" Then as she thought of white-haired Hagar Warren, she raised her hand to curse her, but the words died on her lips, for Hagar's deed had brought to her much joy; and now, as she remembered the bounding step, the merry laugh, the sunny face, and loving words which had made her later years so happy, she involuntarily stretched out her arms in empty air, moaning sadly: "I want her here. I want her now, just as she used to be." Then, over the grave of her buried daughter, over the grave of the sickly child, whose thin, blue face came up before her just as it lay in its humble coffin, over the deception of eighteen years, her heart bounded with one wild, yearning throb, for every bleeding fiber clung with a deathlike grasp to her who had been so suddenly taken from her. "I love her still!" she cried; "but can I take her back?" And then commenced the fiercest struggle of all, the battling of love and pride, the one rebelling against the child of Hagar Warren, and the other clamoring loudly that without that child the world to her was nothing. It was the hour of Madam Conway's humiliation, and in bitterness of spirit she groaned: "That I should come to this! Theo first, and Margaret, my bright, my beautiful Margaret, next! Oh, how can I give her up when I loved her best of all—best of all!"
This was true, for all the deeper, stronger love of Madam Conway's nature had gone forth to the merry, gleeful girl whose graceful, independent bearing she had so often likened to herself and the haughty race with which she claimed relationship. How was this illusion dispelled! Margaret was not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport. A servant-girl had been her mother, and of her father there was nothing known. Madam Conway was one who seldom wept for grief. She had stood calmly at the bedside of her dying husband, had buried her only daughter from her sight, had met with many reverses, and shed for all no tears, but now they fell like rain upon her face, burning, blistering as they fell, but bringing no relief.
"I shall miss her in the morning," she cried, "miss her at noon, miss her in the lonesome nights, miss her everywhere—oh, Margaret, Margaret, 'tis more than I can bear! Come back to me now, just as you are. I want you here—here where the pain is hardest," and she clasped her arms tightly over her heaving bosom. Then her pride returned again, and with it came thoughts of Arthur Carrollton. He would scoff at her as weak and sentimental; he would never take beyond the sea a bride of "Hagarish" birth; and duty demanded that she too should be firm, and sanction his decision. "But when he's gone," she whispered, "when he has left America behind, I'll find her, if my life is spared. I'll find poor Margaret, and see that she does not want, though I must not take her back."
This resolution, however, did not bring her comfort, and the hands pressed so convulsively upon her side could not ease her pain. Surely never before had so dark an hour infolded that haughty woman, and a prayer that she might die was trembling on her lips when a footfall echoed along the hall, and Arthur Carrollton stood before her. His face was very pale, bearing marks of the storm he had passed through; but he was calm, and his voice was natural as he said: "Possibly what we have heard is false. It may be a vagary of Hagar's half-crazed brain."
For an instant Madam Conway had hoped so too; but when she reflected, she knew that it was true. Old Hagar had been very minute in her explanations to Margaret, who in turn had written exactly what she had heard, and Madam Conway, when she recalled the past, could have no doubt that it was true. She remembered everything, but more distinctly the change of dress at the time of the baptism. There could be no mistake. Margaret was not hers, and so she said to Arthur Carrollton, turning her head away as if she too were in some way answerable for the disgrace.
"It matters not," he replied, "whose she has been. She is mine now, and if you feel able we will consult together as to the surest method of finding her." A sudden faintness came over Madam Conway, and, while the expression of her face changed to one of joyful surprise, she stammered out: "Can it be I hear aright? Do I understand you? Are you willing to take poor Maggie back?"
"I certainly have no other intention," he answered. "There was a moment, the memory of which makes me ashamed, when my pride rebelled; but it is over now, and though Maggie cannot in reality be again your child, she can be my wife, and I must find her."
"You make me so happy—oh, so happy!" said Madam Conway. "I feared you would cast her off, and in that case it would have been my duty to do so too, though I never loved a human being as at this moment I love her."
Mr. Carrollton looked as if he did not fully comprehend the woman who, loving Margaret as she said she did, could yet be so dependent upon his decision; but he made no comment, and when next he spoke he announced his intention of calling upon Hagar, who possibly could tell him where Margaret had gone. "At all events," said he, "I may ascertain why the secret, so long kept, was at this late day divulged. It may be well," he continued, "to say nothing to the servants as yet, save that Maggie has gone. Mrs. Jeffrey, however, had better be let into the secret at once. We can trust her, I think."
Madam Conway bowed, and Mr. Carrollton left the room, starting immediately for the cottage by the mine. As he approached the house he saw the servant who for several weeks had been staying there, and who now came out to meet him, telling him that since the night before Hagar had been raving crazy, talking continually of Maggie, who, she said, had gone where none would ever find her.
In some anxiety Mr. Carrollton pressed on, until the cottage door was reached, where for a moment he stood gazing silently upon the poor woman before him. Upon the bed, her white hair falling over her round, bent shoulders, and her large eyes shining with delirious light, old Hagar sat, waving back and forth, and talking of Margaret, of Hester, and "the little foolish child," who, with a sneer upon her lip, she said, "was a fair specimen of the Conway race."
"Hagar," said Mr. Carrollton; and at the sound of that voice Hagar turned toward him her flashing eyes, then with a scream buried her head in the bedclothes, saying: "Go away, Arthur Carrollton! Why are you here? Don't you know who I am? Don't you know what Margaret is, and don't you know how proud you are?"
"Hagar," he said again, subduing, by a strong effort, the repugnance he felt at questioning her, "I know all, except where Margaret has gone, and if on this point you can give me any information, I shall receive it most thankfully."
"Gone!" shrieked Hagar, starting up in bed; "then she has gone. The play is played out, the performance is ended—and I have sinned for nothing!"
"Hagar, will you tell me where Maggie is? I wish to follow her," said Mr. Carrollton; and Hagar answered: "Maggie, Maggie—he said that lovingly enough, but there's a catch somewhere. He does not wish to follow her for any good—and though I know where she has gone I'll surely never tell. I kept one secret nineteen years. I can keep another as long"; and, folding her arms upon her chest, she commenced singing, "I know full well, but I'll never tell."
Biting his lips with vexation, Mr. Carrollton tried first by persuasion, then by flattery, and lastly by threats, to obtain from her the desired information, but in vain. Her only answer was, "I know full well, but I'll never tell," save once, when tossing towards him her long white hair, she shrieked: "Don't you see a resemblance—only hers is black—and so was mine nineteen years ago—and so was Hester's too—glossy and black as the raven's wing. The child is like the mother—the mother was like the grandmother, and the grandmother is like—me, Hagar Warren. Do you understand?"
Mr. Carrollton made no answer, and with a feeling of disappointment walked away, shuddering as he thought, "And she is Margaret's grandmother."
He found Madam Conway in hysterics on Margaret's bed, for she had refused to leave the room, saying she would die there, or nowhere. Gradually the reality of her loss had burst upon her, and now, gasping, choking, and wringing her hands, she lay upon the pillows, while Mrs. Jeffrey, worked up to a pitch of great nervous excitement, fidgeted hither and thither, doing always the wrong thing, fanning the lady when she did not wish to be fanned, and ceasing to fan her just when she was "dying for want of air."
As yet Mrs. Jeffrey knew nothing definite, except that something dreadful had happened to Margaret; but very candidly Mr. Carrollton told her all, bidding her keep silent on the subject; then, turning to Madam Conway, he repeated to her the result of his call on old Hagar.
"The wretch!" gasped Madam Conway, while Mrs. Jeffrey, running in her fright from the window to the door, and from the door back to the window again, exclaimed: "Margaret not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport, after all! It is just what I expected. I always knew she came honestly by those low-bred ways!"
"Jeffrey," and the voice of the hysterical woman on the bed was loud and distinct, as she grasped the arm of the terrified little governess, who chanced to be within her reach. "Jeffrey, either leave my house at once, or speak more deferentially of Miss Miller. You will call her by that name, too. It matters not to Mr. Carrollton and myself whose child she has been. She is ours now, and must be treated with respect. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, ma'am," meekly answered Jeffrey, rubbing her dumpy arm, which bore the mark of a thumb and finger, and as her services were not just then required she glided from the room to drown, if possible, her grievance in the leather-bound London edition of Baxter!
Meanwhile Madam Conway was consulting with Mr. Carrollton as to the best mode of finding Margaret. "She took the cars, of course," said Mr. Carrollton, adding that he should go at once to the depot and ascertain which way she went. "If I do not return to-night you need not be alarmed," he said, as he was leaving the room, whereupon Madam Conway called him back, bidding him telegraph for Theo at once, as she must have someone with her besides that vexatious Jeffrey.
Mr. Carrollton promised compliance with her request, and then went immediately to the depot, where he learned that no one had entered the cars from that place on the previous night, and that Maggie, if she took the train at all, must have done so at some other station. This was not unlikely, and before the day was passed Mr. Carrollton had visited several different stations, and had talked with the conductors of the several trains, but all to no purpose; and, very much disheartened, he returned at nightfall to the old stone house, where to his surprise he found both Theo and her husband. The telegram had done its mission, and feeling anxious to know the worst George had come up with Theo to spend the night. It was the first time that Madam Conway had seen him since her memorable encounter with his mother, for though Theo had more than once been home, he had never before accompanied her, and now when Madam Conway heard his voice in the hall below she groaned afresh. The sight of his good-humored face, however, and his kind offer to do whatever he could to find the fugitive, restored her composure in a measure, and she partially forgot that he was in any way connected with the blue umbrella, or the blue umbrella connected with him! Never in her life had Theo felt very deeply upon any subject, and now, though she seemed bewildered at what she heard, she manifested no particular emotion, until her grandmother, wringing her hands, exclaimed, "You have no sister now, my child, and I no Margaret!" Then, indeed, her tears flowed, and when her husband whispered to her, "We will love poor Maggie all the same," she cried aloud, but not quite as demonstratively as Madam Conway wished; and, in a very unamiable frame of mind, the old lady accused her of being selfish and hard-hearted.
At this stage of proceedings Mr. Carrollton returned, bringing no tidings of Maggie, whereupon another fit of hysterics ensued, and as Theo behaved much worse than Mrs. Jeffrey had done, the latter was finally summoned again to the sickroom, and at last succeeded in quieting the excited woman. The next morning George Douglas visited old Hagar, but he too was unsuccessful, and that afternoon he returned to Worcester, leaving Theo with her grandmother, who, though finding fault with whatever she did, refused to let her go until Margaret was found.
During the remainder of the week Mr. Carrollton rode through the country, making the most minute inquiries, and receiving always the same discouraging answer. Once he thought to advertise, but from making the affair thus public he instinctively shrank, and, resolving to spare neither his time, his money, nor his health, he pursued his weary way alone. Once, too, Madam Conway spoke of Henry Warner, saying it was possible Maggie might have gone to him, as she had thought so much of Rose; but Mr. Carrollton "knew better." A discarded lover, he said, was the last person in the world to whom a young girl like Margaret would go, particularly as Theo had said that Henry was now the husband of another.
Still the suggestion haunted him, and on the Monday following Henry
Warner's first visit to Worcester, he, too, went down to talk with Mr.
Douglas, asking him if it were possible that Maggie was in Leominster.
"I know she is not," said George, repeating the particulars of his interview with Henry, who, he said, was at the store on Saturday. "Once I thought of telling him all," said he, "and then, considering the relation which formerly existed between them, I concluded to keep silent, especially as he manifested no desire to speak of her, but appeared, I fancied, quite uneasy when I casually mentioned Hillsdale."
Thus was that matter decided, and while not many miles away Maggie was watching hopelessly for the coming of Arthur Carrollton, he, with George Douglas, was devising the best means for finding her, George generously offering to assist in the search, and suggesting finally that he should himself go to New York City, while Mr. Carrollton explored Boston and its vicinity. It seemed quite probable that Margaret would seek some of the large cities, as in her letter she had said she could earn her livelihood by teaching music; and quite hopeful of success, the young men parted, Mr. Carrollton going immediately to Boston, while Mr. Douglas, after a day or two, started for New York, whither, as the reader will remember, he had gone at the time of Henry's last visit to Worcester.
Here for a time we leave them, Hagar raving mad, Madam Conway in strong hysterics, Theo wishing herself anywhere but at Hillsdale, Mrs. Jeffrey ditto, George Douglas threading the crowded streets of the noisy city, and Mr. Carrollton in Boston, growing paler and sadder as day after day passed by, bringing him no trace of the lost one. Here, I say, we leave them, while in another chapter we follow the footsteps of her for whom this search was made.
CHAPTER XXIII.
NIAGARA.
From the seaside to the mountains, from the mountains to Saratoga, from Saratoga to Montreal, from Montreal to the Thousand Isles, and thence they scarce knew where, the travelers wended their way, stopping not long at any place, for Margaret was ever seeking change. Greatly had she been admired, her pale, beautiful face attracting attention at once; but from all flattery she turned away, saying to Henry and Rose, "Let us go on."
So onward still they went, pausing longest at Montreal, for it was there Arthur Carrollton had been, there a part of his possessions lay, and there Margaret willingly lingered, even after her companions wished to be gone.
"He may be here again," she said; and so she waited and watched, scanning eagerly the passers-by, and noticing each new face as it appeared at the table of the hotel where they were staying. But the one she waited for never came. "And even if he does," she thought, "he will not come for me."
So she signified her willingness to depart, and early one bright July morning she left, while the singing birds from the treetops, the summer air from the Canada hills, and, more than all, a warning voice within her, bade her "Tarry yet a little, stay till the sun was set," for far out in the country, and many miles away, a train was thundering on. It would reach the city at nightfall, and among its jaded passengers was a worn and weary man. Hopeless, almost aimless now, he would come, and why he came he scarcely knew. "She would not be there, so far from home," he felt sure, but he was coming for the sake of what he hoped and feared when last he trod those streets. Listlessly he entered the same hotel from whose windows, for five long days, a fair young face had looked for him. Listlessly he registered his name, then carelessly turned the leaves backward—backward—backward still, till only one remained between his hand and the page bearing date five days before. He paused and was about to move away, when a sudden breeze from the open window turned the remaining leaf, and his eye caught the name, not of Maggie Miller, but of "Henry Warner, lady, and sister."
Thus it stood, and thus he repeated it to himself, dwelling upon the last word "sister," as if to him it had another meaning. He had heard from Madam Conway that neither Henry Warner nor Rose had a sister, but she might be mistaken; probably she was; and dismissing the subject from his mind, he walked away. Still the names haunted him, and thinking at last that if Mr. Warner were now in Montreal he would like to see him, he returned to the office, asking the clerk if the occupants of Nos. —— were there still.
"Left this morning for the Falls," was the laconic answer; and, without knowing why he should particularly wish to do so, Mr. Carrollton resolved to follow them.
He would as soon be at the Falls as in Montreal, he thought. Accordingly he left the next morning for Niagara, taking the shortest route by river and lake, and arriving there on the evening of the second day after his departure from the city. But nowhere could a trace be found of Henry Warner, and determining now to wait until he came Mr. Carrollton took rooms at the International, where after a day or two, worn out with travel, excitement, and hope deferred, he became severely indisposed, and took his bed, forgetting entirely both Henry Warner and the sister, whose name he had seen upon the hotel register. Thoughts of Maggie Miller, however, were constantly in his mind, and whether waking or asleep he saw always her face, sometimes radiant with healthful beauty, as when he first beheld her, and again, pale, troubled, and sad, as when he saw her last.
"Oh, shall I ever find her?" he would sometimes say, as in the dim twilight he lay listening to the noisy hum which came up from the public room below.
And once, as he lay there thus, he dreamed, and in his dreams there came through the open window a clear, silvery voice, breathing the loved name of Maggie. Again he heard it on the stairs, then little tripping feet went past his door, followed by a slow, languid tread, and with a nervous start the sick man awoke. The day had been cloudy and dark, but the rain was over now, and the room was full of sunshine—sunshine dancing on the walls, sunshine glimmering on the floor, sunshine everywhere. Insensibly, too, there stole over Mr. Carrollton's senses a feeling of quiet, of rest, and he slept ere long again, dreaming this time that Margaret was there.
Yes, Margaret was there—there, beneath the same roof which sheltered him and the same sunshine which filled his room with light had bathed her white brow, as, leaning from her window, she listened to the roar of the falling water. They had lingered on their way, stopping at the Thousand Isles, for Margaret would have it so; but they had come at last, and the tripping footsteps in the hall, the silvery voice upon the stairs, was that of the golden-haired Rose, who watched over Margaret with all a sister's love and a mother's care. The frequent jokes of the fun-loving Henry, too, were not without their good effect, and Margaret was better now than she had been for many weeks.
"I can rest here," she said, and a faint color came to her cheeks, making her look more like herself than at any time since that terrible night of sorrow in the woods.
And so three days went by, and Mr. Carrollton, on his weary bed, dreamed not that the slender form which sometimes, through his half-closed door, cast a shadow in his room, was that of her for whom he sought. The tripping footsteps, too, went often by, and a merry, childish voice, which reminded him of Maggie, rang through the spacious halls, until at last the sick man came to listen for that party as they passed. They were a merry party, he thought, a very merry party; and he pictured to himself her of the ringing voice; she was dark-eyed, he said, with braids of shining hair, and when, as they were passing once, he asked of his attendant if it were not as he had fancied, he felt a pang of disappointment at the answer, which was, "The girl the young gentleman hears so much has yellow curls and dark blue eyes."
"She is not like Maggie, then," he sighed, and when again he heard that voice a part of its music was gone. Still, it cheered his solitude, and he listened for it again, just as he had done before.
Once, when he knew they were going out, he went to the window to see them, but the large straw hats and close carriage revealed no secret, and disappointed he turned away.
"It is useless to stay here longer," he said; "I must be about my work. I am able to leave, and I will go to-morrow. But first I will visit the Falls once more. I may never see them again."
Accordingly, next morning, after Margaret and Rose had left the house, he came down the stairs, sprang into an open carriage, and was driven to Goat Island, which, until his illness, had been his favorite resort.
* * * * *
Beneath the tall forest trees which grow upon the island there is a rustic seat. Just on the brink of the river it stands, and the carriage road winds by. It is a comparatively retired spot, looking out upon the foaming water rushing so madly on. Here the weary often rest; here lovers sometimes come to be alone; and here Maggie Miller sat on that summer morning, living over again the past, which to her had been so bright, and musing sadly on the future, which would bring her she knew not what.
She had struggled to overcome her pride, nor deemed it now a disgrace that she was not a Conway. Of Hagar, too, she often thought, pitying the poor old half-crazed woman who for her sake had borne so much. But not of her was she thinking now. Hagar was shriveled and bent and old, while the image present in Margaret's mind was handsome, erect, and young, like the gentleman riding by—the man whose carriage wheels, grinding into the gravelly road, attracted no attention. Too intent was she upon a shadow to heed aught else around, and she leaned against a tree, nor turned her head aside, as Arthur Carrollton went by!
A little further on, and out of Maggie's sight, a fairy figure was seated upon the grass; the hat was thrown aside, and her curls fell back from her upturned face as she spoke to Henry Warner. But the sentence was unfinished, for the carriage appeared in view, and with woman's quick perception Rose exclaims, "'Tis surely Arthur Carrollton!"
Starting to her feet, she sprang involuntarily forward to meet him, casting a rapid glance around for Margaret. He observed the movement, and knew that somewhere in the world he had seen that face before—those golden curls—those deep blue eyes—that childish form—they were not wholly unfamiliar. Who was she, and why did she advance towards him?
"Rose," said Henry, who would call her back, "Rose!" and looking towards the speaker Mr. Carrollton knew at once that Henry Warner and his bride were standing there before him.
In a moment he had joined them, and though he knew that Henry Warner had once loved Maggie Miller he spoke of her without reserve, saying to Rose, when she asked if he were there for pleasure: "I am looking for Maggie Miller. A strange discovery has been made of late, and Margaret has left us."
"She is here—here with us!" cried Rose; and in the exuberance of her joy she was darting away, when Henry held her back until further explanations were made.
This did not occupy them long, for sitting down again upon the bank Rose briefly told him all she knew; and when with eager joy he asked "Where is she now?" she pointed towards the spot, and then with Henry walked away, for she knew that it was not for her to witness that glad meeting.
The river rolls on with its heaving swell, and the white foam is tossed towards the shore, while the soft summer air still bears on its wing the sound of the cataract's roar. But Margaret sees it not, hears it not. There is a spell upon her now—a halo of joy; and she only knows that a strong arm is around her, and a voice is in her ear, whispering that the bosom on which her weary head is pillowed shall be her resting place forever.
It had come to her suddenly, sitting there thus—the footfall upon the sand had not been heard—the shadow upon the grass had not been seen, and his presence had not been felt, till, bending low, Mr. Carrollton said aloud, "My Maggie!"
Then indeed she started up, and turned to see who it was that thus so much like him had called her name. She saw who it was, and looking in his face she knew she was not hated, and with a moaning cry went forward to the arm extended to receive her.
* * * * *
Four guests, instead of one, went forth that afternoon from the International—four guests homeward bound, and eager to be there. No more journeying now for happiness; no more searching for the lost; for both are found; both are there—happiness and Maggie Miller.