HOME.
Impatient, restless, and cross, Madam Conway lay in Margaret's room,
scolding Theo and chiding Mrs. Jeffrey, both of whom, though trying
their utmost to suit her, managed unfortunately to do always just what
she wished them not to do. Mrs. Jeffrey's hands were usually too cold,
and Theo's were too hot. Mrs. Jeffrey made the head of the bed too
high, Theo altogether too low. In short, neither of them ever did what
Margaret would have done had she been there, and so day after day the
lady complained, growing more and more unamiable, until at last Theo
began to talk seriously of following Margaret's example, and running
away herself, at least as far as Worcester; but the distressed Mrs.
Jeffrey, terrified at the thought of being left there alone, begged of
her to stay a little longer, offering the comforting assurance
that "it cannot be so bad always, for Madam Conway will either get
better--or something."
So Theo stayed, enduring with a martyr's patience the caprices of
her grandmother, who kept the whole household in a constant state of
excitement, and who at last began to blame George Douglas entirely as
being the only one in fault. "He didn't half look," she said, "and
she doubted whether he knew enough to keep from losing himself in New
York. It was the most foolish thing Arthur Carrollton had ever done,
hiring George Douglas to search!"
"Hiring him, grandma!" cried Theo; "George offered his services for
nothing," and the tears came to her eyes at the injustice done her
husband.
But Madam Conway persisted in being unreasonable, and matters grew
gradually worse until the day when Margaret was found at the Falls. On
that morning Madam Conway determined upon riding. "Fresh air will
do me good," she said, "and you have kept me in a hot chamber long
enough."
Accordingly, the carriage was brought out, and Madam Conway carefully
lifted in; but ere fifty rods were passed the coachman was ordered to
drive back, as she could not endure the jolt. "I told you I couldn't,
all the time;" and her eyes turned reprovingly upon poor Theo, sitting
silently in the opposite corner.
"The Lord help me, if she isn't coming back so soon!" sighed Mrs.
Jeffrey, as she saw the carriage returning, and went to meet the
invalid, who had "taken her death of cold," just as she knew she
should when they insisted upon her going out.
That day was far worse than any which had preceded it. It was probably
her last, Madam Conway said, and numerous were the charges she gave
to Theo concerning Margaret, should she ever be found. The house, the
farm, the furniture and plate were all to be hers, while to Theo was
given the lady's wardrobe, saving such articles as Margaret might
choose for herself, and if she never were found the house and farm
were to be Mr. Carrollton's. This was too much for Theo, who resolved
to go home on the morrow, at all hazards, and she had commenced making
preparations for leaving, when to her great joy her husband came, and
in recounting to him her trials she forgot in a measure how unhappy
she had been. George Douglas was vastly amused at what he heard, and
resolved to experiment a little with the lady, who was so weak as to
notice him only with a slight nod when he first entered the room. He
saw at a glance that nothing in particular was the matter, and when
towards night she lay panting for breath, with her eyes half closed,
he approached her and said, "Madam, in case you die--"
"In case I die!" she whispered indignantly. "It doesn't admit of a
doubt. My feet are as cold as icicles now."
"Certainly," said he. "I beg your pardon; of course you'll die."
The lady turned away rather defiantly for a dying woman, and George
continued, "What I mean to say is this--if Margaret is never found,
you wish the house to be Mr. Carrollton's?"
"Yes, everything, my wardrobe and all," came from beneath the
bedclothes; and George proceeded: "Mr. Carrollton cannot of course
take the house to England, and, as he will need a trusty tenant, would
you object greatly if my father and mother should come here to live?
They'd like it, I--"
The sentence was unfinished--the bunches in the throat which for hours
had prevented the sick woman from speaking aloud, and were eventually
to choke her to death, disappeared; Madam Conway found her voice, and,
starting up, screamed out, "That abominable woman and heathenish girl
in this house, in my house; I'll live forever, first!" and her angry
eyes flashed forth their indignation.
"I thought the mention of mother would revive her," said George,
aside, to Theo, who, convulsed with laughter, had hidden herself
behind the window curtain.
Mr. Douglas was right, for not again that afternoon did Madam Conway
speak of dying, though she kept her bed until nightfall, when art
incident occurred which brought her at once to her feet, making her
forget that she had ever been otherwise than well.
In her cottage by the mine old Hagar had raved and sung and wept,
talking much of Margaret, but never telling whither she had gone.
Latterly, however, she had grown more calm, talking far less than
heretofore, and sleeping a great portion of the day, so that the
servant who attended her became neglectful, leaving her many hours
alone, while she, at the stone house, passed her time more agreeably
than at the lonesome hut. On the afternoon of which we write she was
as usual at the house, and though the sun went down she did not hasten
back, for her patient, she said, was sure to sleep, and even if she
woke she did not need much care.
Meantime old Hagar slumbered on. It was a deep, refreshing sleep, and
when at last she did awake, her reason was in a measure restored, and
she remembered everything distinctly up to the time of Margaret's last
visit, when she said she was going away. And Margaret had gone away,
she was sure of that, for she remembered Arthur Carrollton stood once
within that room, and besought of her to tell if she knew aught of
Maggie's destination. She did know, but she had not told, and perhaps
they had not found her yet. Raising herself in bed, she called aloud
to the servant, but there came no answer; and for an hour or more she
waited impatiently, growing each moment more and more excited. If
Margaret were found she wished to know it, and if she were not found
it was surely her duty to go at once and tell them where she was.
But could she walk? She stepped upon the floor and tried. Her limbs
trembled beneath her weight, and, sinking into a chair, she cried, "I
can't! I can't!"
Half an hour later she heard the sound of wheels. A neighboring farmer
was returning home from Richland, and had taken the cross road as
his shortest route. "Perhaps he will let me ride," she thought, and,
hobbling to the door, she called after him, making known her request.
Wondering what "new freak" had entered her mind, the man consented,
and just as it was growing dark he set her down at Madam Conway's
gate, where, half fearfully, the bewildered woman gazed around. The
windows of Margaret's room were open, a figure moved before them;
Margaret might be there; and entering the hall door unobserved, she
began to ascend the stairs, crawling upon her hands and knees, and
pausing several times to rest.
It was nearly dark in the sickroom, and as Mrs. Jeffrey had just gone
out, and Theo, in the parlor below, was enjoying a quiet talk with her
husband, Madam Conway was quite alone. For a time she lay thinking
of Margaret; then her thoughts turned upon George and his "amazing
proposition." "Such unheard of insolence!" she exclaimed, and she was
proceeding farther with her soliloquy, when a peculiar noise upon the
stairs caught her ear, and raising herself upon her elbow she listened
intently to the sound, which came nearer and nearer, and seemed like
someone creeping slowly, painfully, for she could hear at intervals a
long-drawn breath or groan, and with a vague feeling of uneasiness she
awaited anxiously the appearance of her visitor; nor waited long, for
the half-closed door swung slowly back, and through the gathering
darkness the shape came crawling on, over the threshold, into the
room, towards the corner, its limbs distorted and bent, its white hair
sweeping the floor. With a smothered cry Madam Conway hid beneath the
bedclothes, looking cautiously out at the singular object which came
creeping on until the bed was reached. It touched the counterpane, it
was struggling to regain its feet, and with a scream of horror the
terrified woman cried out, "Fiend, why are you here?" while a faint
voice replied, "I am looking for Margaret. I thought she was in bed";
and, rising up from her crouching posture, Hagar Warren stood face to
face with the woman she had so long deceived.
"Wretch!" exclaimed the latter, her pride returning as she recognized
old Hagar and thought of her as Maggie's grandmother. "Wretch, how
dare you come into my presence? Leave this room at once," and a shrill
cry of "Theo! Theo!" rang through the house, bringing Theo at once to
the chamber, where she started involuntarily at the sight which met
her view.
"Who is it? who is it?" she exclaimed.
"It's Hagar Warren. Take her away!" screamed Madam Conway; while
Hagar, raising her withered hand deprecatingly, said: "Hear me first.
Do you know where Margaret is? Has she been found?"
"No, no," answered Theo, bounding to her side, while Madam Conway
forgot to scream, and bent eagerly forward to listen, her symptoms
of dissolution disappearing one by one as the strange narrative
proceeded, and ere its close she was nearly dressed, standing erect as
ever, her face glowing, and her eyes lighted up with joy.
"Gone to Leominster! Henry Warner's half-sister!" she exclaimed. "Why
didn't she add a postscript to that letter, and tell us so? Though
the poor child couldn't think of everything;" and then, unmindful of
George Douglas, who at that moment entered the room, she continued:
"I should suppose Douglas might have found it out ere this. But the
moment I put my eyes upon _that woman_ I knew no child of hers would
ever know enough to find Margaret. The Warners are a tolerably good
family, I presume. I'll go after her at once. Theo, bring my broché
shawl, and wouldn't you wear my satin hood? 'Twill be warmer than my
leghorn."
"Grandma," said Theo, in utter astonishment, "What do you mean? You
surely are not going to Leominster to-night, as sick as you are?"
"Yes, I am going to Leominster to-night," answered the decided woman;
"and this gentleman," waving her hand majestically towards George,
"will oblige me much by seeing that the carriage is brought out."
Theo was about to remonstrate, when George whispered: "Let her go;
Henry and Rose are probably not at home, but Margaret may be there. At
all events, a little airing will do the old lady good;" and, rather
pleased than otherwise with the expedition, he went after John, who
pronounced his mistress "crazier than Hagar."
But it wasn't for him to dictate, and, grumbling at the prospect
before him, he harnessed his horses and drove them to the door, where
Madam Conway was already in waiting.
"See that everything is in order for our return," she said to Theo,
who promised compliance, and then, herself bewildered, listened to the
carriage as it rolled away; it seemed so like a dream that the woman
who three hours before could scarcely speak aloud had now started for
a ride of many miles in the damp night air! But love can accomplish
miracles, and it made the eccentric lady strong, buoying up her
spirits, and prompting her to cheer on the coachman, until just as the
day grew rosy in the east Leominster appeared in view. The house was
found, the carriage steps let down, and then with a slight trembling
in her limbs Madam Conway alighted and walked up the graveled path,
casting eager, searching glances around and commenting as follows:
"Everything is in good taste; they must be somebody, these Warners.
I'm glad it is no worse." And with each new indication of refinement
in Margaret's relatives the disgrace seemed less and less in the mind
of the proud Englishwoman.
The ringing of the bell brought down Janet, who, with an inquisitive
look at the satin hood and bundle of shawls, ushered the stranger
into the parlor, and then went for her mistress. Taking the card her
servant brought, Mrs. Warner read with some little trepidation the
name "Madam Conway, Hillsdale." From what she had heard, she was not
prepossessed in the lady's favor; but, curious to know why she was
there at this early hour, she hastened the making of her toilet, and
went down to the parlor, where Madam Conway sat, coiled in one corner
of the sofa, which she had satisfied herself was covered with real
brocatel, as were also the chairs within the room. The tables of
rosewood and marble, and the expensive curtains had none of them
escaped her notice, and in a mood which more common furniture would
never have produced Madam Conway arose to meet Mrs. Warner, who
received her politely, and then waited to hear her errand.
It was told in a few words. She had come for Margaret--Margaret, whom
she had loved for eighteen years, and could not now cast off, even
though she were not of the Conway and Davenport extraction.
"I can easily understand how painful must have been the knowledge that
Maggie was not your own," returned Mrs. Warner, "for she is a girl
of whom anyone might be proud; but you are laboring under a
mistake--Henry is not her brother;" and then very briefly she
explained the matter to Madam Conway, who, having heard so much, was
now surprised at nothing, and who felt, it may be, a little gratified
in knowing that Henry was, after all, nothing to Margaret, save the
husband of her sister. But a terrible disappointment awaited her.
Margaret was not there; and so loud were her lamentations that some
time elapsed ere Mrs. Warner could make her listen while she explained
that Mr. Carrollton had found Maggie the day previous at the Falls,
that they were probably in Albany now, and would reach Hillsdale that
very day; such at least was the import of the telegram which Mrs.
Warner had received the evening before. "They wish to surprise you,
undoubtedly," she said, "and consequently have not telegraphed to
you."
This seemed probable, and forgetting her weariness Madam Conway
resolved upon leaving John to drive home at his leisure, while she
took the Leominster cars, which reached Worcester in time for the
upward train. This matter adjusted, she tried to be quiet; but her
excitement increased each moment, and when at last breakfast was
served she did but little justice to the tempting viands which her
hostess set before her. Margaret's chamber was visited next, and very
lovingly she patted and smoothed the downy pillows, for the sake of
the bright head which had rested there, while to herself she whispered
abstractedly, "Yes, yes," though to what she was giving her assent
she could not tell. She only knew that she was very happy, and very
impatient to be gone, and when at last she did go it seemed to her an
age ere Worcester was reached.
Resolutely turning her head away, lest she should see the scene of her
disaster when last in that city, she walked up and down the ladies'
room, her satin hood and heavy broché shawl, on that warm July
morning, attracting much attention. But little did she care. Margaret
was the burden of her thoughts, and the appearance of Mrs. Douglas
herself would scarcely have disturbed her. Much less, then, did the
presence of a queerly dressed young girl, who, entering the car with
her, occupied from necessity the same seat, feeling herself a little
annoyed at being thus obliged to sit so near one whom she mentally
pronounced "mighty unsociable," for not once did Madam Conway turn her
face that way, so intent was she upon watching their apparent speed,
and counting the number of miles they had come.
When Charlton was reached, however, she did observe the women in a
shaker, who, with a pail of huckleberries on her arm, was evidently
waiting for someone.
An audible groan from the depths of the satin hood, as Betsy Jane
passed out and the cars passed on, showed plainly that the mother and
sister of George Douglas were recognized, particularly as the former
wore the red and yellow calico, which, having been used as a "dress
up" the summer before, now did its owner service as a garment of
everyday wear. But not long did Madam Conway suffer her mind to dwell
upon matters so trivial. Hillsdale was not far away, and she came each
moment nearer. Two more stations were reached--the haunted swamp was
passed--Chicopee River was in sight--the bridge appeared in view--the
whistle sounded, and she was there.
Half an hour later, and Theo, looking from her window, started in
surprise as she saw the village omnibus drive up to their door.
"'Tis grandmother!" she cried, and running to meet her she asked why
she had returned so soon.
"They are coming at noon," answered the excited woman--then, hurrying
into the house and throwing off her hood, she continued: "He's found
her at the Falls; they are between here and Albany now; tell
everybody to hurry as fast as they can; tell Hannah to make a
chicken pie--Maggie was fond of that; and turkey--tell her to kill a
turkey--it's Maggie's favorite dish--and ice cream, too! I wish I had
some this minute," and she wiped the perspiration from her burning
face.
No more hysterics now; no more lonesome nights; no more thoughts of
death--for Margaret was coming home--the best loved of them all.
Joyfully the servants told to each other the glad news, disbelieving
entirely the report fast gaining circulation that the queenly Maggie
was lowly born--a grandchild of old Hagar. Up and down the stairs
Madam Conway ran, flitting from room to room, and tarrying longest
in that of Margaret, where the sunlight came in softly through the
half-closed blinds and the fair summer blossoms smiled a welcome for
the expected one.
Suddenly the noontide stillness was broken by a sound, deafening and
shrill on ordinary occasions, but falling now like music on Madam
Conway's ear, for by that sound she knew that Margaret was near.
Wearily went the half-hour by, and then, from the head of the tower
stairs, Theo cried out, "She is coming!" while the grandmother buried
her face in the pillows of the lounge, and asked to be alone when she
took back to her bosom the child which was not hers.
Earnestly, as if to read the inmost soul, each looked into the other's
eyes--Margaret and Theo--and while the voice of the latter was choked
with tears she wound her arms around the graceful neck, which bent to
the caress, and whispered low, "You are my sister still."
Against the vine-wreathed balustrade a fairy form was leaning, holding
back her breath lest she should break the deep silence of that
meeting. In her bosom there was no pang of fear lest Theo should be
loved the best; and, even had there been, it could not surely have
remained, for stretching out her arm Margaret drew Rose to her side,
and placing her hand in that of Theo said, "You are both my sisters
now," while Arthur Carrollton, bending down, kissed the lips of the
three, saying as he did so, "Thus do I acknowledge your relationship
to me."
"Why don't she come?" the waiting Madam Conway sighed, just as Theo,
pointing to the open door, bade Margaret go in.
There was a blur before the lady's eyes--a buzzing in her ears--and
the footfall she had listened for so long was now unheard as it
came slowly to her side. But the light touch upon her arm--the
well-remembered voice within her ear, calling her "Madam Conway,"
sent through her an electric thrill, and starting up she caught the
wanderer in her arms, crying imploringly, "Not that name, Maggie
darling; call me grandma, as you used to do--call me grandma still,"
and smoothing back the long black tresses, she looked to see if grief
had left its impress upon her fair young face. It was paler now, and
thinner too, than it was wont to be, and while her tears fell fast
upon it, Madam Conway whispered: "You have suffered much, my child,
and so have I. Why did you go away? Say, Margaret, why did you leave
me all alone?"
"To learn how much you loved me," answered Margaret, to whom this
moment brought happiness second only to that which she had felt when
on the river bank she sat with Arthur Carrollton, and heard him tell
how much she had been mourned--how lonesome was the house without
her--and how sad were all their hearts. But that was over now--no more
sadness, no more tears; the lost one had returned; Margaret was home
again--home in the hearts of all, and nothing could dislodge her--not
even the story of her birth, which Arthur Carrollton, spurning at
further deception, told to the listening servants, who, having always
respected old Hagar for her position in the household as well as for
her education, so superior to their own, set up a deafening shout,
first for "Hagar's grandchild," and next for "Miss Margaret forever!"