MAGDALEN AT ROGER’S HOME.
It had been some consolation to Roger to know that an Irving was living
at Millbank, even if it was no longer his, but to have it pass into the
hands of strangers was terrible to him, and on the day of the sale he
lived over again the sorrow he had felt when first his fortune was taken
from him.
He had requested Frank to inform him at once with regard to the
purchaser, and had waited almost as impatiently as Magdalen herself,
until Frank’s telegram flashed along the wires, “Sold to Guy Seymour,
for Magdalen.”
Then for a moment Roger’s heart gave a great throb of joy, and a hope or
expectation of something, he knew not what, flitted through his mind. He
had seen in a paper that Guy Seymour had returned from Europe with his
family, and from the same paper learned that Mr. Grey was dead. There
was no bitterness then in Roger’s heart towards the man whose enemy he
had been. Arthur Grey was dead, and gone to One who would deal justly
with him; and Roger was sorry he had ever felt so hard towards him, for
he had been the father of Magdalen, and she was as dear to him now as
she had been in the years gone by, when she made the very brightness of
his life. He could not forget her, though her name was never on his
lips, save as he bore it night and morning to the Throne of Grace, or
whispered it to himself in the loneliness of his room, or up among the
pines, where she always seemed near to him. He had given up all hope of
ever calling her his own. His unanswered letter had driven him to that,
and still the days were brighter and life seemed far more desirable
after he knew that she had returned, that the same sky smiled on them
both by day, and the same stars kept watch over them at night.
“Guy Seymour bought it for Magdalen,” he said, as he held the telegram
in his trembling hand. “Yes, I see; her father has left her rich, and
she has bought Millbank, and means perhaps to live there; but not alone,
surely not alone in that great house;” and then Roger went off into a
train of speculation as to Magdalen’s probable intentions. Was Guy to be
there with Alice, or was there a prospective husband across the sea?
Roger grew hot and faint when he thought of that, and felt a headache
coming on, and said to his partner that he would go home and rest a
while. He told Hester of the telegram, and with a woman’s ready wit she
_guessed_ what Magdalen’s intentions might be, but gave no sign to
Roger. She saw how pale he was looking, and was prepared to hear of his
headache, and made him some tea, and told him to keep still and not
bother about Frank’s affairs.
“You’ve just tired yourself to death over ’em,” she said, “and it’s no
wonder you are sick.”
He was better the next day, and went as usual to his office, but the
next morning his headache had returned with redoubled violence. And
while Magdalen was making her way to the old-fashioned farm-house
covered with vines and surrounded with flowers and shrubs, he was
sleeping quietly upon the couch in his room, unmindful of the great
happiness in store for him,—the great surprise, coming nearer and nearer
as Magdalen hastened her footsteps, her heart beating almost to bursting
when at a sudden turn in the road she came upon the house which they
told her was Mr. Irving’s.
“The first one round the corner. You’ll know it by the heaps of flowers,
and the pretty yard,” a boy had said, and Magdalen had almost run, so
eager was she to be there.
“Oh, how beautiful! I should know Roger lived here,” she said, as she
stopped to admire the velvety turf in which patches of bright flowers
were blooming, the fanciful beds, the borders and walks, and the signs
of taste and care everywhere visible.
She did not think of the old house, with its low windows and doors, and
signs of antiquity. She saw only the marks of cultivation around it, and
thought it was Roger’s home. The windows of an upper room were open, and
a rustic basket of ivy and geraniums and verbenas was standing in one of
them, while a book with the paper folder in it was in the other, and
across both white curtains were hanging, the summer wind moving them in
and out with a slow, gentle motion.
“I know that this is Roger’s room,” Magdalen said, and a vague desire
seized her that he might receive Millbank from her there.
* * * * *
Old Hester Floyd had finished her work and was about to “tidy herself up
a little,” when a rustling movement at the door attracted her attention,
and she turned to find Magdalen standing there, her dark eyes bright as
diamonds, her cheeks flushed and burning with excitement, her lips apart
and her hands clasped together, as she bent slightly forward across the
kitchen threshold. With a scream, Hester bounded toward her, and
dragging her into the room, exclaimed, “Magdalen, Magdalen, I knew it, I
knew it. I said something was going to happen when the rooster crowed so
this morning,—somebody going to come; but I did not dream of you,
Magdalen, oh! Magdalen.” She kept repeating the name, and with her hard,
rough hands held and rubbed the soft white fingers she had clasped;
then, as the joy kept growing, she sobbed aloud and broke down entirely.
“Oh! Magdalen,” she said, “I am so glad for _him_. He has wanted you and
missed you all the time, though he never mentioned your name.”
Something in the face or manner of the younger woman must have
communicated itself to the mind of the elder, for Magdalen had given no
reason for her sudden appearance at Schodick, or sign of what she meant
to do. But Hester took her coming as a good omen for Roger, and kept
repeating, “I’m so glad, so glad for Roger.”
“How do you know he wants me, if, as you say, he never mentions my
name?” Magdalen asked, and Hester replied, “How do we know the sun
shines when we can’t _hear_ it? We can see and feel, can’t we? And so I
know you ain’t long out of Roger’s mind, and ain’t been since we moved
here, and he brung the candle-box cradle with him just because you once
slept in it.”
“Did Roger do that? Did he bring my cradle from Millbank? Why didn’t you
tell me before?” Magdalen asked, her eyes shining with tears of joy at
this proof of Roger’s love.
“I thought I did write it to you,” Hester replied; “I meant to, but
might of forgot but he brought it by express; and it’s upstairs now, and
in it—”
Hester stopped abruptly, thinking it might be premature to speak of the
cribby quilt, which did not now stand so good a chance of reaching the
heathen as it had done one hour before.
“Where is Roger?” Magdalen asked, and Hester told her of the headache he
had complained of ever since the day of the sale, adding, “He’s in his
room, which is fixed up as nice as anybody’s; his books and pictures and
a little recess for his bed, just like any gentleman.”
“Does he know who bought Millbank?” Magdalen asked next, and Hester
replied:
“Yes, Frank telegraphed that Mr. Seymour bought it for _you_, and Roger
was as white as a ghost, and has been sick ever since. Magdalen, what
did you buy Millbank for? Be you goin’ to git married?”
Hester asked this question a little anxiously, and Magdalen’s eyes
fairly danced as she replied, “I think so, Hester, but I’m not quite
certain. I did not buy Millbank for myself, though, I bought it for
Roger, and—”
Hester’s hand deepened its grasp on Magdalen’s, and Hester’s face was
almost as white as her cap border, as she bent forward to listen, saying
eagerly, “and what, Magdalen? You bought it for Roger and what?”
“And have given it to him. I was the means of his losing it. It is right
that I should give it back, and I am here to do so. The deed is in my
pocket, made out to him, to Roger,—see,” and she held the precious
document toward Hester, who was on her knees now, kissing even the dress
of the young girl thus making restitution.
She could hardly believe it true, and she took the paper in her hands
and pressed it to her lips, then opened it reverently, and glancing at
its contents, whispered, “It is, it is. It reads like the deed of the
tavern stand. It must be true. Oh, Magdalen, Roger can’t live there
alone. Who is to live with him?”
“You and I, Hester, if he will let us. Do you think he will?” Magdalen
said, with a merry gleam in her bright eyes.
“Do I think he will? Ask him, and see what he says.”
Old Hester had risen to her feet, but she still held Magdalen’s hand,
and leading her into the next room, pointed to the stair door, and said,
“He is up there; come on if you want to see him.”
At the head of the stairs Hester paused a moment to reconnoitre,—then
whispered softly, “He’s asleep on the lounge. Shall we go back?”
“No, leave me here with him,” Magdalen replied, and nodding assent,
Hester stole softly down the stairs, while Magdalen stepped carefully
across the threshold of the room, and closing the door behind her stood
looking upon Roger.