ONE STEP TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD.
Weeks passed on, and so necessary to the comfort of the invalid did
the presence of Mrs. Carter become, that at last, by particular
request, she took up her abode at the homestead, becoming Mrs.
Hamilton's constant nurse and attendant. Lenora, for the time being,
was sent to the house of a friend, who lived not far distant. When
Margaret Hamilton learned of the arrangement she opposed it with all
her force.
"Send her away, mother," said she one evening; "please send her away,
for I cannot endure her presence, with her oily words and silent
footsteps. She reminds me of the serpent, who decoyed Eve into eating
that apple, and I always feel an attack of the nightmare whenever I
know that her big, black eyes are fastened upon me."
"How differently people see!" laughed Carrie, who was sitting by.
"Why, Mag, I always fancy _her_ to be in a nightmare when your big
eyes light upon her."
"It's because she knows she's guilty," answered Mag, her words and
manner warming up with the subject. "Say, mother, won't you send her
off! It seems as though a dark shadow falls upon us all the moment she
eaters the house."
"She is too invaluable a nurse to be discharged for a slight whim,"
answered Mrs. Hamilton. "Besides she bears the best of reputations,
and I don't see what possible harm can come of her being here."
Margaret sighed, for though she knew full well the "possible harm"
which might come of it, she could not tell it to her pale, dying
mother; and ere she had time for any answer, the black bombazine
dress, white linen, collar, and white, smooth face of Widow Carter
moved silently into the room. There was a gleam of intense hatred in
the dark eyes which for a moment flashed on Margaret's face, and then
a soft hand gently stroked the glossy hair of the indignant girl, and
in the most musical tones imaginable a low voice murmured, "Maggie,
dear, you look flushed and wearied. Are you quite well?"
"Perfectly so," answered Margaret; and then rising, she left the room,
but not until she had heard her mother say, "Dear Mrs. Carter, I am so
glad you've come!"
"Is everybody bewitched," thought Mag, as she repaired to her chamber,
"father, mother, Carrie, and all? How I wish Walter was here. He
always sees things as I do."
Margaret Hamilton was a high-spirited, intelligent girl, about
nineteen years of age. She was not beautiful, but had you asked for
the finest-looking girl in all Glenwood, Mag would surely have been
pointed out. She was rather above the medium height, and in her whole
bearing there was a quiet dignity, which many mistook for hauteur.
Naturally frank, affectionate, and kind-hearted, she was, perhaps, a
little strong in her prejudices, which, when once satisfactorily
formed, could not easily be shaken.
For Mrs. Carter she had conceived a strong dislike, for she believed
her to be an artful, hypocritical woman, and now, as she sat by the
window in her room, her heart swelled with indignation toward one who
had thus usurped her place by her mother's bedside, whom Carrie was
learning to confide in, and of whom even the father said, "she is a
most excellent woman."
"I will write to Walter," said she, "and tell him to come
immediately."
Suiting the action to the word, she drew up her writing desk, and soon
a finished letter was lying before her. Ere she had time to fold and
direct it, a loud cry from her young brother Willie summoned her for a
few moments from the room, and on her return she met in the doorway
the black bombazine and linen collar.
"Madam," said she, "did you wish for anything?"
"Yes, dear," was the soft answer, which, however, in this case failed
to turn, away wrath. "Yes, dear, your mother said you knew where there
were some fine bits of linen."
"And could not Carrie come for them?" asked Mag.
"Yes, dear, but she looks so delicate that I do not like to send her
up these long stairs oftener than is necessary. Haven't you noticed
how pale she is getting of late? I shouldn't be at all surprised--"
but before the sentence was finished the linen was found, and the door
closed upon Mrs. Carter.
A new idea had been awakened in Margaret's mind, and for the first
time she thought how much her sister really had changed. Carrie, who
was four years younger than Margaret, had ever been delicate, and her
parents had always feared that not long could they keep her; but
though each winter her cough had returned with increased severity,
though the veins on her white brow grew more distinct, and her large,
blue eyes glowed with unwonted luster, still Margaret had never before
dreamed of danger, never thought that soon her sister's voice would be
missed, and that Carrie would be gone. But she thought of it now, and
laying her head upon the table wept for a time in silence.
At length, drying her tears, she folded her letter and took it to the
post-office. As she was returning home she was met by a servant, who
exclaimed, "Run, Miss Margaret, run; your mother is dying, and Mrs.
Carter sent me for you!"
Swift as the mountain chamois, Margaret sped up the long, steep hill,
and in a few moments stood within her mother's sick-room. Supported in
the arms of Mrs. Carter lay the dying woman, while her eyes, already
overshadowed with the mists of coming death, wandered anxiously around
the room, as if in quest of some one. The moment Margaret appeared, a
satisfied smile broke over her wasted features, and beckoning her
daughter to her bedside, she whispered, "Dear Maggie, you did not
think I'd die so soon, when you went away."
A burst of tears was Maggie's only answer, as she passionately kissed
the cold, white lips, which had never breathed aught to her save words
of love and gentleness. Far different, however, would have been her
reply had she known the reason of her mother's question. Not long
after she had left the house for the office, Mrs. Hamilton had been
taken worse, and the physician, who chanced to be present, pronounced
her dying. Instantly the alarmed husband summoned together his
household, but Mag was missing. No one had seen her; no one knew where
she was, until Mrs. Carter, who had been some little time absent from
the room reentered it, saying "Margaret had started for the
post-office with a letter when I sent a servant to tell her of her
mother's danger, but for some reason she kept on, though I dare say
she will soon be back."
As we well know, the substance of this speech was true, though the
impression which Mrs. Carter's words conveyed was entirely false. For
the advancement of her own cause she felt that it was necessary to
weaken the high estimation in which Mr. Hamilton held his daughter,
and she fancied that the mother's death-bed was as fitting a place
where to commence operations as she could select.
As Margaret hung over her mother's pillow, the false woman, as if to
confirm the assertion she had made, leaned forward and said, "Robin
told you, I suppose? I sent him to do so."
Margaret nodded assent, while a deeper gloom fell upon the brow of Mr.
Hamilton, who stood with folded arms watching the advance of the great
destroyer. It came at last, and though no perceptible change heralded
its approach, there was one fearful spasm, one long-drawn sigh, a
striving of the eye for one more glimpse of the loved ones gathered
near, and then Mrs. Hamilton was dead. On the bosom of Mrs. Carter her
life was breathed away, and when all was over that lady laid gently
down her burden, carefully adjusted the tumbled covering, and then
stepping to the window, looked out, while the stricken group deplored
their loss.
Long and bitterly over their dead they wept, but not on one of that
weeping band fell the bolt so crushingly as upon Willie, the youngest
of the flock, the child four summers old, who had ever lived in the
light of his mother's love. They had told him she would die, but he
understood them not, for never before had he looked on death; and now,
when to his childish words of love his mother made no answer, most
piteously rang out the infantile cry, "Mother, oh, my mother, who'll
be my mother now?"
Caressingly, a small, white hand was laid on Willie's yellow curls,
but ere the words of love were spoken Margaret took the little fellow
in her arms, and whispered through her tears, "I'll be your mother,
darling."
Willie brushed the tear-drops from his sister's cheek and laying his
fair, round face upon her neck, said, "And who'll be Maggie's mother?
Mrs. Carter?"
"Never! never!" answered Mag, while to the glance of hatred and
defiance cast upon her she returned one equally scornful and
determined.
Soon from the village there came words of sympathy and offers of
assistance; but Mrs. Carter could do everything, and in her blandest
tones she declined the services of the neighbors, refusing even to
admit them into the presence of Margaret and Carrie, who, she said
were so much exhausted as to be unable to bear the fresh burst of
grief which the sight of an old friend would surely produce. So the
neighbors went home, and as the world will ever do, descanted upon the
probable result of Mrs. Carter's labors at the homestead. Thus, ere
Ernest Hamilton had been three days a widower, many in fancy had
wedded him to Mrs. Carter, saying that nowhere could he find so good a
mother for his children.
And truly she did seem to be indispensable in that house of mourning.
'Twas she who saw that everything was done, quietly and in order;
'twas she who so neatly arranged the muslin shroud; 'twas her arms
that supported the half-fainting Carrie when first her eye rested on
her mother, coffined for the grave; 'twas she who whispered words of
comfort to the desolate husband; and she, too, it was, who, on the
night when Walter was expected home, _kindly_ sat up until past
midnight to receive him!
She had read Mag's letter, and by being first to welcome the young man
home, she hoped to remove from his mind any prejudice which he might
feel for her, and by her bland smiles and gentle words to lure him
into the belief that she was perfect, and Margaret uncharitable.
Partially she succeeded, too, for when next morning Mag expressed a
desire that Mrs. Carter would go home, he replied, "I think you judge
her wrongfully; she seems to be a most amiable, kind-hearted woman."
"_Et tu, Brute!_" Mag could have said, but 'twas neither the time nor
the place, and linking her arm within her brother's she led him into
the adjoining room, where stood their mother's coffin.