MARGARET AND HER FATHER.
'Twas midnight--midnight after the burial. In the library of the old
homestead sat its owner, his arms resting upon the table, and his face
reclining upon his arms. Sadly was he reviewing the dreary past, since
first among them death had been, bearing away his wife, the wife of
his first only love. Now, by her grave there was another, on which the
pale moonbeams and the chill night-dews were falling, but they could
not disturb the rest of the two who, side by side in the same coffin,
lay sleeping, and for whom the father's tears were falling fast, and
the father's heart was bleeding.
"Desolate, desolate--all is desolate," said the stricken man. "Would
that I, too, were asleep with my lost ones!"
There was a rustling sound near him, a footfall, and an arm was thrown
lovingly around his neck. Margaret's tears were on his cheek, and
Margaret's voice whispered in his ear, "Dear father, we must love each
other better now."
Margaret had not retired, and on passing through the hall, had
discovered the light gleaming through the crevice of the library door.
Knowing that her father must be there, she had come in to comfort him.
Long the father and child wept together, and then Margaret, drying her
tears said:
"It is right--all right; mother has two, and you have two, and though
the dead will never return to us, we, in God's good time, will return
to them."
"Yes, soon, very soon, shall I go," said Mr. Hamilton.
"I am weary, weary, Margaret; my life is one scene of bitterness. Oh,
why, why was I left to do it?"
Margaret knew well to what he referred, but she made no answer; and
after he had become somewhat composed, thinking this a good
opportunity for broaching the subject which had so troubled Carrie's
dying moments, she drew from her bosom the soiled piece of paper, and
placing it in his hands, watched him while he read. The moan of
anguish which came from his lips as he finished made her repent of her
act, and, springing to his side, she exclaimed:
"Forgive me, father; I ought not to have done it now. You have enough
to bear."
"It is right, my child," said Mr. Hamilton; "for after the wound had
slightly healed I might have wavered. Not that I love Walter less;
but, fool that I am, I fear her who has made me the cowardly wretch
you see!"
"Rouse yourself, then," answered Margaret. "Shake off her chain, and
be free."
"I cannot, I cannot," said he. "But this I will do. I will make
another will. I always intended to do so, and Walter shall not be
wronged." Then rising, he hurriedly paced the room saying, "Walter
shall not be wronged, no, no--Walter shall not be wronged."
After a time he resumed his former seat, and taking his daughter's
hand in his, he told her of all he had suffered, of the power which
his wife held over him, and which he was too weak to shake off. This
last he did not say, but Margaret knew it and it prevented her from
giving him other consolation than that of assuring him of her own
unchanged, undying love.
The morning twilight was streaming through the closed shutters ere the
conference ended; and then Mr. Hamilton, kissing his daughter,
dismissed her from the room, but as she was leaving him he called her
back, saying:
"Don't tell Walter; he would despise me; but he shan't be wronged--no,
he shan't be wronged."
Six weeks from that night Margaret stood, with her brother, watching
her father as the light from his eyes went out, and the tones of his
voice ceased forever. Grief for the loss of his children, and remorse
for the blight which he had brought upon his household, had undermined
his constitution, never strong; and when a prevailing fever settled
upon him it found an easy prey. In ten days' time Margaret and Walter
alone were left of the happy band who, two years before, had gathered
around the fireside of the old homestead.
Loudly Mrs. Hamilton deplored her loss, shutting herself up in her
room, and refusing to see any one, saying that she could not be
comforted, and it was of no use trying! Lenora, however, managed to
find an opportunity of whispering to her that it would hardly be
advisable to commit suicide, since she had got the homestead left, and
everything else for which she had married Mr. Hamilton.
"Lenora, how can you thus trifle with my feelings? Don't you see that
my trouble is killing me?" said the greatly distressed lady.
"I don't apprehend any such catastrophe as that," answered Lenora.
"You found the weeds of Widow Carter easy enough to wear, and those of
Widow Hamilton won't hurt you any worse, I imagine."
"Lenora," groaned Mrs. Hamilton, "may you never know what it is to be
the unhappy mother of such a child!"
"Amen!" was Lenora's fervent response, as she glided from the room.
For three days the body of Mr. Hamilton lay upon the marble center
table in the darkened parlor. Up and down the long staircases, and
through the silent rooms, the servants moved noiselessly. Down in the
basement Aunt Polly forgot her wonted skill in cooking, and in a
broken rocking-chair swayed to and fro, brushing the big tears from
her dusky face, and lamenting the loss of one who seemed to her "just
like a brother, only a little nigher."
In the chamber above, where six weeks before Carrie had died, sat
Margaret--not weeping; she could not do that--her grief was too great,
and the fountain of her tears seemed scorched and dried; but, with
white, compressed lips, and hands tightly clasped, she thought of the
past and of the cheerless future. Occasionally through the doorway
there came a small, dark figure; a pair of slender arms were thrown
around her neck, and a voice murmured in her ear: "Poor, poor Maggie."
The next moment the figure would be gone, and in the hall below Lenora
would be heard singing snatches of some song, either to provoke her
mother, or to make the astonished servants believe that she was really
heartless and hardened.
What Walter suffered could not be expressed. Hour after hour, from the
sun's rising till its going down, he sat by his father's coffin,
unmindful of the many who came in to look at the dead, and then gazing
pitifully upon the face of the living, walked away, whispering
mysteriously of insanity. Near _him_ Lenora dared not come, though
through the open door she watched him, and oftentimes he met the
glance of her wild, black eyes, fixed upon him with a mournful
interest; then, as if moved by some spirit of evil, she would turn
away, and seeking her mother's room, would mock at that lady's grief,
advising her not to make too much of an effort.
At last there came a change. In the yard there was the sound of many
feet, and in the house the hum of many voices, all low and subdued.
Again in the village of Glenwood was heard the sound of the tolling
bell; again through the garden and over the running water brook moved
the long procession to the graveyard; and soon Ernest Hamilton lay
quietly sleeping by the side of his wife and children.
For some time after the funeral nothing was said concerning the will,
and Margaret had almost forgotten the existence of one, when one day
as she was passing the library door her mother appeared, and asked her
to enter. She did so, and found there her brother, whose face, besides
the marks of recent sorrow which it wore, now seemed anxious and
expectant.
"Maggie dear," said the oily-tongued woman, "I have sent for you to
hear read your beloved father's last will and testament."
A deep flush mounted to Margaret's face, as she repeated somewhat
inquiringly, "Father's last will and testament?"
"Yes, dear," answered her mother, "his last will and testament. He
made it several weeks ago, even before poor Carrie died; and as Walter
is now the eldest and only son, I think it quite proper that he should
read it."
So saying, she passed toward Walter a sealed package, which he
nervously opened, while Margaret, going to his side, looked over his
shoulder, as he read.
It is impossible to describe the look of mingled surprise, anger, and
mortification which Mrs. Hamilton's face assumed, as she heard the
will which her husband had made four weeks before his death, and in
which Walter shared equally with his sister. Her first impulse was to
destroy it; and springing forward, she attempted to snatch it from
Walter's hand, but was prevented by Margaret, who caught her arm and
forcibly held her back.
Angrily confronting her stepdaughter, Mrs. Hamilton demanded, "What
does this mean?" to which Mag replied:
"It means, madam, that for once you are foiled. You coaxed my father
into making a will, the thought of which ought to make you blush.
Carrie overheard you telling Lenora, and when she found that she must
die she wrote it on a piece of paper, and consigned it to Willie's
care!"
Several times Mrs. Hamilton essayed to speak, but the words died away
in her throat, until at last, summoning all her boldness, she said, in
a hoarse whisper, "But the homestead is mine--mine forever, and we'll
see how delightful I can make your home!"
"I'll save you that trouble, madam," said Walter, rising and advancing
toward the door. "Neither my sister nor myself will remain beneath the
same roof which shelters you. To-morrow we leave, knowing well that
vengeance belongeth to One higher than we."
All the remainder of that day Walter and Margaret spent in devising
some plan for the future, deciding at last that Margaret should on the
morrow go for a time to Mrs. Kirby's, while Walter returned to the
city. The next morning, however, Walter did not appear in the
breakfast parlor, and when Margaret, alarmed at his absence, repaired
to his room, she found him unable to rise. The fever with which his
father had died, and which, was still prevailing in the village, had
fastened upon him, and for many days was his life despaired of. The
ablest physicians were called, but few of them gave any hope to the
pale, weeping sister, who, with untiring love, kept her vigils by her
brother's bedside.
When he was first taken ill he had manifested great uneasiness at his
stepmother's presence, and when at last he became delirious he no
longer concealed his feelings, and if she entered the room he would
shriek "Take her away from me! Take her away! Chain her in the
cellar--anywhere out of my sight."
Again he would speak of Kate, and entreat that she might come to him.
"I have nothing left but her and Margaret," he would say; "and why
does she stay away?"
Three different times had Margaret sent to her young friend, urging
her to come, and still she tarried, while Margaret marveled greatly
at the delay. She did not know that the girl whom she had told to go
had received different directions from Mrs. Hamilton, and that each
day beneath her mother's roof Kate Kirby wept and prayed that Walter
might not die.
One night he seemed to be dying, and gathered in the room were many
sympathizing friends and neighbors. Without, 'twas pitchy dark. The
rain fell in torrents and the wind, which had increased in violence
since the setting of the sun, howled mournfully about the windows, as
if waiting to bear the soul company in its upward flight. Many times
had Walter attempted to speak. At last he succeeded, and the word
which fell from his lips was "Kate!"
Lenora, who had that day accidentally learned of her mother's commands
with regard to Miss Kirby, now glided noiselessly from the room, and
in a moment was alone in the fearful storm, which she did not heed.
Lightly bounding over the swollen brook, she ran on until the
mill-pond cottage was reached. It was midnight, and its inmates were
asleep, but they awoke at the sound of Lenora's voice.
"Walter is dying," said she to Kate, "and would see you once more.
Come quickly."
Hastily dressing herself, Kate went forth with the strange girl, who
spoke not a word until Walter's room was reached. Feebly the sick man
wound his arms around Kate's neck, exclaiming, "My own, my beautiful
Kate, I knew you would come. I am better now--I shall live!" and as if
there was indeed something life-giving in her very presence and the
sound of her voice, Walter from that hour grew better: and in three
weeks' time he, together with Margaret, left his childhood's home,
once so dear, but now darkened by the presence of her who watched
their departure with joy, exulting in the thought that she was
mistress of all she surveyed.
Walter, who was studying law in the city about twenty miles distant,
resolved to return thither immediately, and after some consultation
with his sister it was determined that both she and Kate should
accompany him. Accordingly, a few mornings after they left the
homestead, there was a quiet bridal at the mill-pond cottage; after
which Walter Hamilton bore away to his city home his sister and his
bride, the beautiful Kate.