 | CHAPTER V.
KATE KIRBY. The homestead on the hillside, and other tales |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
KATE KIRBY.
The little brooklet, which danced so merrily by the
homestead burial-place, and then flowed on in many
graceful turns and evolutions, finally lost itself in a glossy
mill-pond, whose waters, when the forest trees were
stripped of their foliage, gleamed and twinkled in the
smoky autumn light, or lay cold and still beneath the
breath of winter. During this season of the year, from
the upper windows of the homestead the mill-pond was
stood upon its banks.
For many years this house had been occupied by Mr.
Kirby, who had been a schoolboy with Ernest Hamilton,
and who, though naturally intelligent, had never aspired
to any higher employment than that of being miller on
the farm of his old friend. Three years before our story
opens, Mr. Kirby had died, and a stranger had been employed
to take his place. Mrs. Kirby, however, was so
much attached to her woodland home and its forest scenery,
that she still continued to occupy the low red house
together with her daughter Kate, who sighed for no better
or more elegant home, although rumor whispered that
there was in store for her a far more costly dwelling, even
the “Homestead on the Hillside.”
Currently was it reported, that during Walter Hamilton's
vacations, the winding footpath, which followed the
course of the streamlet down to the mill-pond, was trodden
more frequently than usual. The postmaster's wife,
too, had hinted strongly of certain ominous letters from
New Haven, which regularly came directed to Kate,
when Walter was not at home; so, putting together
these two facts, and adding to them the high estimation
in which Mrs. Kirby and her daughter were known to be
held by the Hamiltons, it was generally conceded that
there could be no shadow of doubt concerning the state
of affairs between the heir apparent of the old homestead
and the daughter of the poor miller.
Kate was a universal favorite, and by nearly all was it
thought, that in everything save money she was fully the
equal of Walter Hamilton. To a face and form of the
most perfect beauty, she added a degree of intelligence
and sparkling wit, which, in all the rides, parties, and
fetes given by the young people of Glenwood, caused her
counted their money by thousands.
A few there were who said that Kate's long intimacy
with Margaret Hamilton had made her proud; but in the
rude dwellings and crazy tenements which skirted the
borders of Glenwood village, was many a blind old woman,
and many a hoary-headed man, who, in their daily
prayers, remembered the beautiful Kate, the “fair forest-flower,”
who came so oft among them with her sweet
young face and gentle words. For Kate, both Margaret
and Carrie Hamilton already felt a sisterly affection, while
their father smiled graciously upon her, secretly hoping,
however, that his son would make a more brilliant match,
but resolving not to interfere, if at last his choice should
fall upon her.
One afternoon, early in April, as Margaret sat in her
chamber, busy upon a piece of needle-work, the door
softly opened, and a mass of bright chestnut curls became
visible; next appeared the laughing blue eyes; and finally
the whole of Kate Kirby bounded into the room,
saying, “Good afternoon, Maggie; are you very busy,
and wish I had n't come?”
“I am never too busy to see you,” answered Margaret,
at the same time pushing toward Kate the little ottoman,
on which she always sat when in that room.
Kate took the proffered seat, and throwing aside her
bonnet, began with, “Maggie, I want to tell you something,
though I don't know as it is quite right to do so;
still you may as well hear it from me as any one.”
“Do pray tell,” answered Mag, “I am dying with curiosity.”
So Kate smoothed down her black silk apron, twisted one
of her curls into a horridly ugly shape, and commenced
in the village?”
Instantly Margaret's suspicions were roused, and starting
as if a serpent had stung her, she exclaimed, “Mrs.
Carter! is it of her you will tell me? She is a most dangerous
woman—a woman whom your mother would call
a `snake in the grass.”'
“Precisely so,” answered Kate. “That is just what
mother says of her, and yet nearly all the village are
ready to fall down and worship her.”
“Let them, then,” said Mag; “I have no objections,
provided they keep their molten calf to themselves. No
one wants her here. But what is it about her? tell me.”
Briefly then Kate told how Mr. Hamilton was, and for
a long time had been, in the habit of spending one evening
every week with Mrs. Carter; and that people, not
without good cause, were already pointing her out as the
future mistress of the homestead.
“Never, never!” cried Mag, vehemently. “Never
shall she come here. She our mother, indeed! It shall
not be, if I can prevent it.”
After a little further conversation, Kate departed, leaving
Mag to meditate upon the best means by which to avert
the threatened evil. What Kate had told her was true.
Mr. Hamilton had so many questions to ask concerning his
old classmates, and Mrs. Carter had so much to tell, that,
though they had worked industriously all winter, they
were not through yet; neither would they be until Mrs.
Carter found herself again within the old homestead.
The night following Kate's visit, Mag determined to
speak with her father; but immediately after tea he went
out, saying he should not return until nine o'clock. With
a great effort Mag forced down the angry words which she
felt rising within her, and then seating herself at her work,
did she say to Carrie, who retired to her room at
half past eight, as was her usual custom. Alone, now,
Margaret waited. Nine, ten, eleven had been struck,
and then into the sitting-room came Mr. Hamilton, greatly
astonished at finding his daughter there.
“Why, Margaret,” said he, “why are you sitting up
so late?”
“If it is late for me, it is late for you,” answered Margaret,
who, now that the trial had come, felt the awkwardness
of the task she had undertaken.
“But I had business,” answered Mr. Hamilton; and
Margaret, looking him steadily in the face, asked, “Is
not your business of a nature which equally concerns us
all?”
A momentary flush passed over his features, as he replied,
“What do you mean? I do not comprehend.”
Hurriedly, and in broken sentences, Margaret told him
what she meant, and then tremblingly she waited for his
answer. Frowning angrily, he spoke to his daughter the
first harsh words which had ever passed his lips toward
either of his children.
“Go to your room, and don't presume to interfere with
me again. I trust I am competent to tend to my own
matters!”
Almost convulsively Margaret's arms closed round her
father's neck, as she said, “Don't speak so to me, father.
You never did before — never would now, but for her.
Oh, father, promise me, by the memory of my angel
mother, never to see her again. She is a base, designing
woman.”
Mr. Hamilton unwound his daughter's arms from his
neck, and speaking more gently, said, “What proof have
do your bidding.”
But Mag had no such proof at hand, and she could only
reiterate her suspicions, her belief, which, of course, failed
to convince the biased man, who, rising, said, “Your
mother confided and trusted in her, so why should not
you?”
The next moment Margaret was alone. For a long
time she wept, and it was not until the eastern horizon
began to grow gray in the morning twilight, that she
laid her head upon her pillow, and forgot in sleep how
unhappy she had been. Her words, however, were not
without their effect, for when the night came round on
which her father was accustomed to pay his weekly visit,
he staid at home, spending the whole evening with his
daughters, and appearing really gratified at Margaret's
efforts to entertain him. But, alas! the chain of the
widow was too firmly thrown around him for a daughter's
hand alone to sever the fast bound links.
When the next Thursday evening came, Mag was confined
to her room by a sick headache, from which she had
been suffering all day. As night approached, she frequently
asked if her father were below. At last, the
front door opened, and she heard his step upon the piazza.
Starting up, she hurried to the window, while at
the same moment Mr. Hamilton paused, and raising his
eyes, saw the white face of his daughter pressed against
the window-pane, as she looked imploringly after him;
but there was not enough of power in a single look to deter
him, and, wafting her a kiss, he turned away. Sadly
Margaret watched him, until he disappeared down the
long hill; then, returning to her couch, she wept bitterly.
Meantime, Mrs. Carter, who had been greatly chagrined
at the non-appearance of Mr. Hamilton the week before,
asked her to be his wife, and the delay somewhat annoyed
both herself and Lenora.
“I declare, mother,” said Lenora, “I should suppose
you might contrive up something to bring matters to a
focus. I think it's perfectly ridiculous to see two old
crones, who ought to be trotting their grandchildren,
cooing and simpering away at each other, and all for
nothing, too.”
“Can't you be easy a while longer?” asked Mrs. Carter;
“hasn't he said everything he can say, except, `will
you marry me?”'
“A very important question, too,” returned Lenora;
“and I don't know what business you have to expect anything
from him until it is asked.”
“Mr. Hamilton is proud,” answered Mrs. Carter—“is
afraid of doing anything which might possibly lower him.
Now, if by any means I could make him believe that I
had received an offer from some one fully if not more
than his equal, I think it would settle the matter, and I've
decided upon the following plan. I'll write a proposal
myself, sign old Judge B—'s name to it, and next time
Mr. Hamilton comes, let him surprise me in reading it.
Then, as he is such a dear, long tried friend, it will be
quite proper for me to confide in him, and ask his
advice.”
Lenora's eyes opened wider, as she exclaimed, “My
gracious! who, but you, would ever have thought of
that.”
Accordingly the letter was written, sealed, directed,
broken open, laughed over, and laid away in the stand
drawer.
“Mr. Hamilton, mother,” said Lenora, as half an hour
afterward, she ushered that gentleman into the room.
collar in the contents of an open letter, which she held in
her hand, that the words were twice repeated,—“Mr.
Hamilton, mother”— ere she raised her eyes! Then coming
forward with well-feigned confusion, she apologized
for not having observed him before, saying she was sure
he would excuse her if he knew the contents of her letter.
Of course he wanted to know, and of course she didn't
want to tell. He was too polite to urge her, and the conversation
soon took another channel.
After a time Lenora left the room, and Mrs. Carter,
again speaking of the letter, begged to make a confidant
of Mr. Hamilton, and ask his advice. He heard the letter
read through, and after a moment's silence, asked,
“Do you like him, Mrs. Carter?”
“Why,— no,— I don't think I do,” said she, “but then
the widow's lot is so lonely.”
“I know it is,” sighed he, while through the keyhole
of the opposite door came something which sounded very
much like a stifled laugh! It was the hour of Ernest
Hamilton's temptation, and but for the remembrance of
the sad, white face which had gazed so sorrowfully at him
from the window, he had fallen. But Maggie's presence
seemed with him,— her voice whispered in his ear, “Don't
do it, father, don't,”— and he calmly answered that it
would be a good match. But he could not, no he could
not advise her to marry him; so he qualified what he had
said by asking her not to be in a hurry,— to wait awhile.
The laugh through the keyhole was changed to a hiss,
which Mrs. Carter said must be the wind, although there
was not enough stirring to move the rose bushes which
grew by the door step!
So much was Mr. Hamilton held in thrall by the widow,
that on his way home he hardly knew whether to be glad
would marry her she surely was good enough for him.
Anon, too, he recalled her hesitation about confessing
that the judge was indifferent to her. Jealousy crept in,
and completed what flattery and intrigue had commenced.
One week from that night Ernest Hamilton and Luella
Carter were engaged, but for appearance's sake, their
marriage was not to take place until the ensuing autumn.
| CHAPTER V.
KATE KIRBY. The homestead on the hillside, and other tales | |