University of Virginia Library

25. 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 tree-tops
grew red in the day's departing glory, a graceful form came
down the woodland path, where for many weeks the grass
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 whither
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 near, and nearer still, until the shrivelled 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 near 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 Mag; 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 pass, 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 nobody sees you do it—Madam
Conway, Arthur Carrollton, nobody 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 candle
light, 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, told to her gently,
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 she 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 passed 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, passing 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 levelled down, and another had been made, just
where the grass 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!”