University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
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 stair-cases, 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 grave-yard; 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 step-daughter, 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 step-mother'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, 't was 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 week's 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.