University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
AFTER THE BURIAL.

Across the bright waters of the silvery lake which lay
not far from Glenwood village, over the grassy hillside,
and down the long, green valley, had floated the notes of
the tolling bell. In the Hamilton mansion, sympathizing
friends had gathered, and through the crowded parlors a
solemn hush had reigned, broken only by the voice of the
white-haired man of God, who in trembling tones prayed

for the bereaved ones. Over the costly coffin tear-wet
faces had bent, and on the marble features of her who
slept within it, had been pressed the passionate kisses of
a long, a last farewell.

Through the shady garden and across the running
brook, whose waters this day murmured more sadly than
't was their wont to do, the funeral train had passed; and
in the dark, moist earth, by the side of many other still,
pale sleepers, who offered no remonstrance when among
them another came, they had buried the departed.
From the windows of the homestead lights were gleaming,
and in the common sitting-room sat Ernest Hamilton,
and by his side his four motherless children. In the
stuffed arm chair, sacred for the sake of one who had
called it hers, reclined the black bombasin and linen collar
of Widow Carter!

She had, as she said, fully intended to return home immediately
after the burial, but there were so many little
things to be seen to, so much to be done, which Margaret,
of course, did not feel like doing, that she decided to stay
until after supper, together with Lenora, who had come
to the funeral. When supper was over, and there was no
longer an excuse for lingering, she found, very greatly to
her surprise and chagrin, no doubt, that the clouds which
all day had looked dark and angry, were now pouring
rain.

“What shall I do?” she exclaimed in great apparent
distress; then stepping to the door of the sitting-room,
she said, “Maggie, dear, can you lend me an umbrella? It
is raining very hard, and I do not wish to go home without
one; I will send it back to-morrow.”

“Certainly,” answered Margaret. “Umbrella and
overshoes, too;” and rising, she left the room to procure
them.

“But you surely are not going out in this storm, “said
Mr. Hamilton; while Carrie, who really liked Mrs. Carter,
and felt that it would be more lonely when she was
gone, exclaimed eagerly, “Oh, don't leave us to-night,
Mrs. Carter. Don't.”

“Yes, I think I must,” was the answer, while Mr. Hamilton
continued: “You had better stay; but if you insist
upon going, I will order the carriage, as you must not
walk.”

“Rather than put you to all that trouble, I will remain,”
said Mrs. Carter; and when Mag returned with
two umbrellas and two pair of overshoes, she found the
widow comfortably seated in her mother's arm chair,
while on the stool at her side, sat Lenora looking not unlike
a little imp, with her wild, black face, and short, thick curls.

Walter Hamilton had not had much opportunity for
scanning the face of Mrs. Carter, but now, as she sat
there with the firelight flickering over her features, he
fancied that he could trace marks of the treacherous deceit
of which Mag had warned him; and when the full
black eyes rested upon Margaret, he failed not to note
the glance of scorn which flashed from them, and which
changed to a look of affectionate regard the moment she
saw she was observed. “There is something wrong
about her,” thought he, “and the next time I am alone
with Mag I'll ask what it is she fears from this woman.”

That night, in the solitude of their room, mother and
child communed together as follows: “I do believe,
mother, you are twin sister to the old one himself. Why,
who would have thought, when first you made that
friendly visit, that in five weeks' time both of us would
be snugly ensconced in the best chamber of the homestead?”

“If you think we are in the best chamber, you are

greatly mistaken,” replied Mrs. Carter. “Margaret
Hamilton has power enough yet to keep us out of that.
Didn't she look crest-fallen, though, when she found I was
going to stay, notwithstanding her very disinterested
offer of umbrellas and overshoes? but I'll pay it all back
when I become—”

“Mistress of the house,” added Lenora. “Why not
speak out plainly? Or are you afraid the walls have ears,
and that the devoted Mrs. Carter's speeches would not
sound well, repeated? Oh, how sanctimonious you did
look, to-day, when you were talking pious to Carrie! I
actually had to force a sneeze, to keep from laughing
outright, though she, little simpleton, swallowed it all,
and I dare say wonders where you keep your wings!
But really, mother, I hope you don't intend to pet her so
always, for 't would be more than it's worth to see it.”

“I guess I know how to manage,” returned Mrs. Carter.
“There's nothing will win a parent's affection so
soon as to pet the children.”

“And so I suppose you expect Mr. Hamilton to pet
this beautiful child!” said Lenora, laughing loudly at
the idea, and waltzing back and forth before the mirror.

“Lenora! behave; I will not see you conduct so,”
said the widow; to which the young lady replied, “Shut
your eyes, and then you can't!”

Meantime, an entirely different conversation was going
on in another part of the house, where sat Walter Hamilton,
with his arm thrown affectionately around Mag,
who briefly told of what she feared would result from
Mrs. Carter's intimacy at their house.

“Impossible!” said the young man, starting to his
feet. “Impossible! our father has too much sense to
marry again, any way, and much more, to marry one so
greatly inferior to our own dear mother.”

“I hope it may prove so,” answered Mag; “but, with
all due respect for our father, you know and I know that
mother's was the stronger mind, the controlling spirit;
and now that she is gone, father will be more easily deceived.”

Margaret told the truth; for her mother had possessed
a strong intelligent mind, and was greatly the superior of
her father, who, as we have before remarked, was rather
weak, and easily flattered. Always sincere himself in
what he said, he could not believe that other people were
aught than what they seemed to be, and thus oftentimes
his confidence had been betrayed by those in whom he
trusted. As yet, he had, of course, entertained no thought
of ever making Mrs. Carter his wife; but her society was
agreeable, her words and manner soothing, and when, on
the day following the burial, she actually took her departure,
bag, baggage, Lenora, and all, he felt how doubly
lonely was the old homestead, and wondered why she
could not stay. There was room enough, and then Margaret
was too young to assume the duties of housekeeper.
Other men, in similar circumstances, had hired housekeepers,
and why could not he? He would speak to Mag
about it that very night. But when evening came, Walter,
Carrie, and Willie all were present, and he found
no opportunity of seeing Margaret alone; neither did any
occur until after Walter had returned to college, which
he did the week following his mother's death.

That night the little parlor at the cottage where dwelt
the Widow Carter, looked unusually snug and cozy. It
was autumn, and as the evenings were rather cool, a
cheerful wood fire was blazing on the hearth. Before it
stood a tasteful little workstand, near which were seated
Lenora and her mother, the one industriously knitting,
and the other occasionally touching the strings of her

guitar, which was suspended from her neck by a crimson
ribbon. On the sideboard stood a fruit dish loaded with
red and golden apples, and near it a basket filled with the
rich purple grapes.

That day in the street Lenora had met Mr. Hamilton,
who asked if her mother would be at home that evening,
saying he intended to call for the purpose of settling the
bill which he owed her for services rendered to his family
in their late affliction.

“When I once get him here, I will keep him as long as
possible,” said Mrs. Carter; “and, Lenora, child, if he stays
late, say till nine o'clock, you had better go quietly to bed.”

“Or into the next room, and listen,” thought Lenora.

Seven o'clock came, and on the graveled walk there
was heard the sound of footsteps, and in a moment Ernest
Hamilton stood in the room, shaking the warm hand
of the widow, who was delighted to see him, but so sorry
to find him looking pale and thin! Rejecting a seat in
the comfortable rocking-chair, which Lenora pushed
toward him, he proceeded at once to business, and taking
from his purse fifteen dollars, passed them toward Mrs.
Carter, asking if that would remunerate her for the three
weeks' services in his family.

But Mrs. Carter thrust them aside, saying, “Sit down,
Mr. Hamilton, sit down. I have a great deal to ask you
about Maggie and dear Carrie's health.”

“And sweet little Willie,” chimed in Lenora.

Accordingly, Mr. Hamilton sat down, and so fast did
Mrs. Carter talk, that the clock was pointing to half past
eight ere he got another chance to offer his bills. Then,
with the look of a much injured woman, Mrs. Carter declined
the money, saying, “Is it possible, Mr. Hamilton,
that you suppose my services can be bought! What I
did for your wife, I would do for any one who needed

me, though for but few could I entertain the same feelings
I did for her. Short as was our acquaintance, she
seemed to me like a beloved sister; and now that she is
gone, I feel that we have lost an invaluable treasure—”

Here Mrs. Carter broke down entirely, and was obliged
to raise her cambric handkerchief to her eyes, while Lenora
walked to the window to conceal her emotions,
whatever they might have been! When the agitation of
the company had somewhat subsided, Mr. Hamilton
again insisted, and again Mrs. Carter refused. At last,
finding her perfectly inexorable, he proceeded to express
his warmest thanks and deepest gratitude for what she
had done, saying he should ever feel indebted to her for
her great kindness; then, as the clock struck nine, he
arose to go, in spite of Mrs. Carter's zealous efforts to detain
him longer.

“Call again,” said she, as she lighted him to the door;
“call again, and we will talk over old times, when we
were young, and lived in New Haven!”

Mr. Hamilton started, and looking her full in the face,
exclaimed, “Luella Blackburn! It is as I at first suspected;
but who would have thought it!”

“Yes, — I am Luella,” said Mrs. Carter; “though
greatly changed, I trust, from the Luella you once knew,
and of whom even I have no very pleasant reminiscences;
but call again, and I will tell you of many of your old
classmates.”

Mr. Hamilton would have gone almost anywhere for
the sake of hearing from his classmates, many of whom
he greatly esteemed; and as in this case the “anywhere”
was only at Widow Carter's, the idea was not altogether
distasteful to him, and when he bade her good night, he
was under a promise to call again soon. All hopes, however,
of procuring her for his housekeeper were given up,

for if she resented his offer of payment for what she had
already done, she surely would be doubly indignant at his
last proposed plan. After becoming convinced of this
fact, it is a little strange how suddenly he found that he
did not need a housekeeper—that Margaret, who before
could not do at all, could now do very well — as well as
anybody. And Margaret did do well, both as housekeeper
and mother of little Willie, who seemed to have
transferred to her the affection he had borne for his
mother.

At intervals during the autumn, Mrs. Carter called, always
giving a world of good advice, patting Carrie's pale
cheek, kissing Willie, and then going away. But as none
of her calls were ever returned, they gradually became
less frequent, and as the winter advanced, ceased altogether;
while Margaret, hearing nothing and seeing nothing,
began to forget her fears, and to laugh at them as
having been groundless.