CHAPTER XXV.

HAGAR.

By Theo's request old Hagar had been taken home the day before, yielding submissively, for her frenzied mood was over--her strength was gone--her life was nearly spent--and Hagar did not wish to live.

That for which she had sinned had been accomplished, and, though it had cost her days and nights of anguish, she was satisfied at last.

Margaret was coming home again--would be a lady still--the bride of Arthur Carrollton, for George Douglas had told her so, and she was willing now to die, but not until she had seen her once again--had looked into the beautiful face of which she had been so proud.

Not to-day, however, does she expect her; and just as the sun was setting, the sun which shines on Margaret at home, she falls away to sleep. It was at this hour that Margaret was wont to visit her, and now, as the treetops grew red in the day's departing glory, a graceful form came down the woodland path, where for many weeks the gra.s.s has not been crushed beneath her feet. They saw her as she left the house,--Madam Conway, Theo, all,--but none asked whither she was going. They knew, and one who loved her best of all followed slowly after, waiting in the woods until that interview should end.

Hagar lay calmly sleeping. The servant was as usual away, and there was no eye watching Margaret as with burning cheeks and beating heart she crossed the threshold of the door, pausing not, faltering not, until the bed was reached--the bed where Hagar lay, her crippled hands folded meekly upon her breast, her white hair shading a whiter face, and a look about her half-shut mouth as if the thin, pale lips had been much used of late to breathe the word "Forgive." Maggie had never seen her thus before, and the worn-out, aged face had something touching in its sad expression, and something startling too, bidding her hasten, if to that woman she would speak.

"Hagar," she essayed to say, but the word died on her lips, for standing there alone, with the daylight fading from the earth, and the lifelight fading from the form before her, it seemed not meet that she should thus address the sleeper. There was a name, however, by which she called another--a name of love, and it would make the withered heart of Hagar Warren bound and beat and throb with untold joy.

And Margaret said that name at last, whispering it first softly to herself; then, bending down so that her breath stirred the snow-white hair, she repeated it aloud, starting involuntarily as the rude walls echoed back the name "Grandmother!"

"Grandmother!" Through the senses locked in sleep it penetrated, and the dim eyes, once so fiery and black, grew large and bright again as Hagar Warren woke.

Was it a delusion, that beauteous form which met her view, that soft hand on her brow, or was it Maggie Miller?

"Grandmother," the low voice said again, "I am Maggie--Hester's child.

Can you see me? Do you know that I am here?"

Yes, through the films of age, through the films of coming death, and through the gathering darkness, old Hagar saw and knew, and with a scream of joy her shrunken arms wound themselves convulsively around the maiden's neck, drawing her nearer, and nearer still, until the shriveled lips touched the cheek of her who did not turn away, but returned that kiss of love.

"Say it again, say that word once more," and the arms closed tighter round the form of Margaret, who breathed it yet again, while the childish woman sobbed aloud, "It is sweeter than the angels' song to hear you call me so."

She did not ask her when she came--she did not ask her where she had been; but Maggie told her all, sitting by her side with the poor hands clasped in her own; then, as the twilight shadows deepened in the room, she struck a light, and coming nearer to Hagar, said, "Am I much like my mother?"

"Yes, yes, only more winsome," was the answer, and the half-blind eyes looked proudly at the beautiful girl bending over the humble pillow.

"Do you know that?" Maggie asked, holding to view the ambrotype of Hester Hamilton.

For an instant Hagar wavered, then hugging the picture to her bosom, she laughed and cried together, whispering as she did so, "My little girl, my Hester, my baby that I used to sing to sleep in our home away over the sea."

Hagar's mind was wandering amid the scenes of bygone years, but it soon came back again to the present time, and she asked of Margaret whence that picture came. In a few words Maggie told her, and then for a time there was silence, which was broken at last by Hagar's voice, weaker now than when she spoke before.

"Maggie," she said, "what of this Arthur Carrollton? Will he make you his bride?"

"He has so promised," answered Maggie; and Hagar continued: "He will take you to England, and you will be a lady, sure. Margaret, listen to me. 'Tis the last time we shall ever talk together, you and I, and I am glad that it is so. I have greatly sinned, but I have been forgiven, and I am willing now to die. Everything I wished for has come to pa.s.s, even the hearing you call me by that blessed name; but, Maggie, when to-morrow they say that I am dead--when you come down to look upon me lying here asleep, you needn't call me 'Grandmother,' you may say 'poor Hagar!' with the rest; and, Maggie, is it too much to ask that your own hands will arrange my hair, fix my cap, and straighten my poor old crooked limbs for the coffin? And if I should look decent, will you, when n.o.body sees you do it--Madam Conway, Arthur Carrollton, n.o.body who is proud--will you, Maggie, kiss me once for the sake of what I've suffered that you might be what you are?"

"Yes, yes, I will," was Maggie's answer, her tears falling fast, and a fear creeping into her heart, as by the dim candlelight she saw a nameless shadow settling down on Hagar's face.

The servant entered at this moment, and, glancing at old Hagar, sunk into a chair, for she knew that shadow was death.

"Maggie," and the voice was now a whisper, "I wish I could once more see this Mr. Carrollton. 'Tis the nature of his kin to be sometimes overbearing, and though I am only old Hagar Warren he might heed my dying words, and be more thoughtful of your happiness. Do you think that he would come?"

Ere Maggie had time to answer there was a step upon the floor, and Arthur Carrollton stood at her side. He had waited for her long, and growing at last impatient had stolen to the open door, and when the dying woman asked for him he had trampled down his pride and entered the humble room. Winding his arm round Margaret, who trembled violently, he said: "Hagar, I am here. Have you aught to say to me?"

Quickly the glazed eyes turned towards him, and the clammy hand was timidly extended. He took it unhesitatingly, while the pale lips murmured faintly, "Maggie's too." Then, holding both between her own, old Hagar said solemnly, "Young man, as you hope for heaven, deal kindly with my child," and Arthur Carrollton answered her aloud, "As I hope for heaven, I will," while Margaret fell upon her knees and wept.

Raising herself in bed, Hagar laid her hands upon the head of the kneeling girl, breathing over her a whispered blessing; then the hands pressed heavily, the fingers clung with a loving grasp, as it were, to the bands of shining hair--the thin lips ceased to move--the head fell back upon the pillow, motionless and still, and Arthur Carrollton, leading Margaret away, gently told her that Hagar was dead.

Carefully, tenderly, as if she had been a wounded dove, did the whole household demean themselves towards Margaret, seeing that everything needful was done, but mentioning never in her presence the name of the dead. And Margaret's position was a trying one, for though Hagar had been her grandmother she had never regarded her as such, and she could not now affect a grief she did not feel. Still, from her earliest childhood she had loved the strange old woman, and she mourned for her now, as friend mourneth for friend, when there is no tie of blood between them.

Her promise, too, was kept, and with her own hands she smoothed the snow-white hair, tied on the muslin cap, folded the stiffened arms, and then, unmindful who was looking on, kissed twice the placid face, which seemed to smile on her in death.

By the side of Hester Hamilton they made another grave, and, with Arthur Carrollton and Rose standing at either side, Margaret looked on while the weary and worn was laid to rest; then slowly retraced her steps, walking now with Madam Conway, for Arthur Carrollton and Rose had lingered at the grave, talking together of a plan which had presented itself to the minds of both as they stood by the humble stone which told where Margaret's mother slept. To Margaret, however, they said not a word, nor yet to Madam Conway, though they both united in urging the two ladies to accompany Theo to Worcester for a few days.

"Mrs. Warner will help me keep house," Mr. Carrollton said, advancing the while so many good reasons why Margaret at least should go, that she finally consented, and went down to Worcester, together with Madam Conway, George Douglas, Theo, and Henry, the latter of whom seemed quite as forlorn as did she herself, for Rose was left behind, and without her he was nothing.

Madam Conway had been very gracious to him; his family were good, and when as they pa.s.sed the Charlton depot thoughts of the leghorn bonnet and blue umbrella intruded themselves upon her, she half wished that Henry had broken his leg in Theo's behalf, and so saved her from bearing the name of Douglas.

The week went by, pa.s.sing rapidly as all weeks will, and Margaret was again at home. Rose was there still, and just as the sun was setting she took her sister's hand, and led her out into the open air toward the resting-place of the dead, where a change had been wrought; and Margaret, leaning over the iron gate, comprehended at once the feeling which had prompted Mr. Carrollton and Rose to desire her absence for a time. The humble stone was gone, and in its place there stood a handsome monument, less imposing and less expensive than that of Mrs.

Miller, it is true, but still chaste and elegant, bearing upon it simply the names of "Hester Hamilton, and her mother Hagar Warren,"

with the years of their death. The little grave, too, where for many years Maggie herself had been supposed to sleep, was not beneath the pine tree now; that mound was leveled down, and another had been made, just where the gra.s.s was growing rank and green beneath the shadow of the taller stone, and there side by side they lay at last together, the mother and her infant child.

"It was kind in you to do this," Margaret said, and then, with her arm round Rose's waist, she spoke of the coming time when the sun of another hemisphere would be shining down upon her, saying she should think often of that hour, that spot, and that sister, who answered: "Every year when the spring rains fall I shall come to see that the grave has been well kept, for you know that she was my mother, too,"

and she pointed to the name of "Hester," deep cut in the polished marble.

"Not yours, Rose, but mine," said Maggie. "My mother she was, and as such I will cherish her memory." Then, with her arm still around her sister's waist, she walked slowly back to the house.

A little later, and while Arthur Carrollton, with Maggie at his side, was talking to her of something which made the blushes burn on her still pale cheeks, Madam Conway herself walked out to witness the improvements, lingering longest at the little grave, and saying to herself, "It was very thoughtful in Arthur, very, to do what I should have done myself ere this had I not been afraid of Margaret's feelings."

Then, turning to the new monument, she admired its chaste beauty, but hardly knew whether she was pleased to have it there or not.

"It's very handsome," she said, leaving the yard, and walking backward to observe the effect. "And it adds much to the looks of the place.

There is no question about that. It is perfectly proper, too, or Mr.

Carrollton would never have put it here, for he knows what is right, of course," and the still doubtful lady turned away, saying as she did so, "On the whole, I think I am glad that Hester has a handsome monument, and I know I am glad that Mrs. Miller's is a little the taller of the two!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

AUGUST EIGHTEENTH, 1858.

Years hence, if the cable resting far down in the mermaids' home shall prove a bond of perfect peace between the mother and her child, thousands will recall the bright summer morning when through the caverns of the mighty deep the first electric message came, thrilling the nation's heart, quickening the nation's pulse, and, with the music of the deep-toned bell and noise of the cannon's roar, proclaiming to the listening mult.i.tude that the isle beyond the sea, and the lands which to the westward lie, were bound together, sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, by a strange, mysterious tie. And two there are who, in their happy home, will oft look back upon that day, that 18th day of August, which gave to one of Britain's sons as fair and beautiful a bride as e'er went forth from the New England hills to dwell beneath a foreign sky.

They had not intended to be married so soon, for Margaret would wait a little longer; but an unexpected and urgent summons home made it necessary for Mr. Carrollton to go, and so by chance the bridal day was fixed for the 18th. None save the family were present, and Madam Conway's tears fell fast as the words were spoken which made them one, for by those words she knew that she and Margaret must part. But not forever; for when the next year's autumn leaves shall fall the old house by the mill will again be without a mistress, while in a handsome country-seat beyond the sea Madam Conway will demean herself right proudly, as becometh the grandmother of Mrs. Arthur Carrollton.

Theo, too, and Rose will both be there, for their husbands have so promised, and when the Christmas fires are kindled on the hearth and the ancient pictures on the wall take a richer tinge from the ruddy light, there will be a happy group a.s.sembled within the Carrollton halls; and Margaret, the happiest of them all, will then almost forget that ever in the Hillsdale woods, sitting at Hagar's feet, she listened with a breaking heart to the story of her birth.

But not the thoughts of a joyous future could dissipate entirely the sadness of that bridal, for Margaret was well beloved, and the billows which would roll ere long between her and her childhood's home stretched many, many miles away. Still they tried to be cheerful, and Henry Warner's merry jokes had called forth more than one gay laugh, when the peal of bells and the roll of drums arrested their attention; while the servants, who had learned the cause of the rejoicing, struck up "G.o.d Save the Queen," and from an adjoining field a rival choir sent back the stirring note of "Hail, Columbia, Happy Land." Mrs.