University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
DARKNESS.

As the spring opened and the days grew warmer, Carrie's
health seemed much improved; and, though she did
not leave her room, she was able to sit up nearly all day,
busying herself with some light work. Ever hopeful,
Margaret hugged to her bosom the delusion which whispered,
“she will not die,” while even the physician was
deceived, and spoke encouragingly of her recovery.

For several months Margaret had thought of visiting
her grandmother, who lived in Albany; and as Mr. Hamilton
had occasion to visit that city, Carrie urged her to
accompany him, saying she was perfectly able to be left
alone, and she wished her sister would go, for the trip
would do her good.

For some time past, Mrs. Hamilton had seemed exceedingly
amiable and affectionate, although her husband
appeared greatly depressed, and acted, as Lenora said,
“just as though he had been stealing sheep.”

“This depression Mag had tried in vain to fathom, and
at last fancying that a change of place and scene might
do him good, she consented to accompany him, on condition
that Kate Kirby would stay with Carrie. At the
mention of Kate's name, Mr. Hamilton's eyes instantly
went over to his wife, whose face wore the same calm,

stony expression, as she answered, “Yes, Maggie, Kate
can come.”

Accordingly, on the morning when the travelers would
start, Kate came up to the homestead, receiving a thousand
and one directions about what to do and when to
do it, hearing not more than half the injunctions, and
promising to comply with every one. Long before the
door the carriage waited, while Margaret, lingering in
Carrie's room, kissed again and again her sister's pure
brow, and gazed into her deep blue eyes, as if she knew
that it was the last time. Even when halfway down the
stairs, she turned back again to say good-by, this time
whispering, “I have half a mind not to go, for something
tells me I shall never see you again.”

“Oh, Mag,” said Carrie, “don't be superstitious. I
am a great deal better, and when you come home, you
will find me in the parlor.”

In the lower hall Mr. Hamilton caressed his little Willie,
who begged that he, too, might go. “Don't leave me,
Maggie, don't,” said he, as Mag came up to say good-by.

Long years after the golden curls which Mag pushed
back from Willie's forehead were covered by the dark,
moist earth, did she remember her baby-brother's childish
farewell, and oft in bitterness of heart she asked,
“Why did I go—why leave my loved ones to die alone?”

Just a week after Mag's departure, news was received
at the homestead that Walter was coming to Glenwood
for a day or two, and on the afternoon of the same day,
Kate had occasion to go home. As she was leaving the
house, Mrs. Hamilton detained her, while she said, “Miss
Kirby, we are all greatly obliged to you for your kindness
in staying with Carrie, although your services really
are not needed. I understand how matters stand between
you and Walter, and as he is to be here to-morrow,

you of course will feel some delicacy about remaining;
consequently, I release you from all obligations to do so.”

Of course there was no demurring to this. Kate's
pride was touched; and though Carrie wept, and begged
her not to go, she yielded only so far as to stay until the
next morning, when, with a promise to call frequently,
she left. Lonely and long seemed the hours to poor Carrie;
for, though Walter came, he staid but two days, and
spent a part of that time at the mill-pond cottage.

The evening after he went away, as Carrie lay, half
dozing, thinking of Mag, and counting the weary days
which must pass ere her return, she was startled by the
sound of Lenora's voice, in the room opposite, the door
of which was ajar. Lenora had been absent a few days,
and Carrie was about calling to her, when some words
spoken by her step-mother arrested her attention, and
roused her curiosity. They were, “You think too little
of yourself, Lenora. Now, I know there is nothing in
the way of your winning Walter, if you choose.”

“I should say there was everything in the way,” answered
Lenora. “In the first place, there is Kate Kirby;
and who, after seeing her handsome face, would ever look
at such a black, turned-up nose, bristle-headed thing as I
am. But I perceive there is some weighty secret on your
mind, so what is it? Have Walter and Kate quarreled,
or have you told him some falsehood about her?”

“Neither,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “What I have to say,
concerns your father.”

“My father!” interrupted Lenora; “my own father!
Oh, is he living?”

“No, I hope not,” was the answer; “it is Mr. hamilton
whom I mean.”

Instantly Lenora's tone changed, and she replied, “If
you please, you need not call that putty-headed man

my father. He acts too much like a whipped spaniel to
suit me, and I really think Carrie ought to be respected
for knowing what little she does, while I wonder where
Walter, Mag, and Willie got their good sense. But what
is it? What have you made Mr. Hamilton do? something
ridiculous, of course.”

“I've made him make his will,” was the answer; while
Lenora continued: “Well, what then? What good will
that do me?”

“It may do you a great deal of good,” said Mrs. Hamilton;
“that is, if Walter likes the homestead as I think
he does. But I tell you, it was hard work, and I did n't
know, one while, but I should have to give it up. However,
I succeeded, and he has willed the homestead to
Walter, provided he marries you. If not, Walter has nothing,
and the homestead comes to me and my heirs forever!”

“Heartless old fool!” exclaimed Lenora, while Carrie,
too, groaned in sympathy. “And do you suppose he intends
to let it go so! Of course not; he'll make another
when you don't know it.”

“I'll watch him too closely for that,” said Mrs. Hamilton;
and after a moment Lenora asked, “what made
you so anxious for a will? Have you received warning
of his sudden demise!”

“How foolish,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “Isn't it the easiest
thing in the world for me to let Walter know what's
in the will, and I fancy that'll bring him to terms, for he
likes money, no mistake about that.”

“Mr. Hamilton is a bigger fool, and you a worse woman,
than I supposed,” said Lenora.” Do you think I
am mean enough to marry Walter under such circumstances?
Indeed, I'm not. But how is Carrie? I must
go and see her.”

She was about leaving the room, when she turned back,
saying in a whisper, “mother, mother, her door is wide
open, as well as this one, and she must have heard every
word!”

“Oh, horror!” exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton; “go in and
ascertain the fact, if possible.”

It took but one glance to convince Lenora that Carrie
was in possession of the secret. Her cheeks were flushed,
her eyes wet with tears; and when Lenora stooped to
kiss her, she said, “I know it all, I heard it all.”

“Then I hope you feel better,” said Mrs. Hamilton,
coming forward. “Listeners never hear any good of
themselves.”

“Particularly if it's Widow Carter who is listened to,”
suggested Lenora.

Mrs. Hamilton did not reply to this, but continued
speaking to Carrie. “If you have learned anything new,
you can keep it to yourself. No one has interfered with
you, or intends to. Your father has a right to do what
he chooses with his own, and I shall see that he exercises
that right, too.”

So saying, she left the room, while Carrie, again bursting
into tears, wept until perfectly exhausted. The next
morning she was attacked with bleeding at the lungs,
which, in a short time, reduced her so low that the physician
spoke doubtfully of her recovery, should the hemorrhage
again return. In the course of two or three
days she was again attacked; and now, when there was
no longer hope of life, her thoughts turned with earnest
longings toward her absent father and sister, and once,
as the physician was preparing to leave her, she said,
“Doctor, tell me truly, can I live twenty-four hours?”

“I think you may,” was the answer.

“Then I shall see them, for if you telegraph to-night,

they can come in the morning train. Go yourself and
see it done, will you?”

The physician promised that he would, and then left
her room. In the hall he met Mrs. Hamilton, who, with
the utmost anxiety depicted upon her countenance, said,
“Dear Carrie is leaving us, is n't she? I have telegraphed
for her father, who will be here in the morning.
'Twas right to do so, was it not?”

“Quite right,” answered the physician. “I promised
to see to it myself, and was just going to do so.”

“Poor child,” returned Mrs. Hamilton, “she feels
anxious, I suppose. But I have saved you the trouble.”

The reader will not, perhaps, be greatly surprised to
learn that what Mrs. Hamilton had said was false. She
suspected that one reason why Carrie so greatly desired
to see her father, was to tell him what she had heard,
and beg of him to undo what he had done; and as she
feared the effect which the sight and words of his dying
child might have upon him, she resolved, if possible, to
keep him away until Carrie's voice was hushed in death.
Overhearing what had been said by the doctor, she resorted
to the stratagem of which we have just spoken.
The next morning, however, she ordered a telegram to
be dispatched, knowing, full well, that her husband could
not reach home until the day following.

Meantime, as the hour for the morning train drew
near, Carrie, resting upon pillows, and whiter than the
linen which covered them, strained her ears to catch the
first sound of the locomotive. At last, far off through
an opening among the hills, was heard a rumbling noise,
which increased each moment in loudness, until the puffing
engine shot out into the long, green valley, and then
rolled rapidly up to the depot.

Little Willie had seemed unwell for a few days, but

since his sister's illness he had staid by her almost constantly,
gazing half curiously, half timidly into her face,
and asking if she were going to the home where his
mamma lived. She had told him that Margaret was
coming, and when the shrill whistle of the eastern train
sounded through the room, he ran to the window,
whither Lenora had preceded him, and there together
they watched for the coming of the omnibus. A sinister
smile curled the lips of Mrs. Hamilton, who was present,
and who, of course, affected to feel interested.

At last Willie, clapping his hands, exclaimed, “There
'tis! They're coming. That's Maggie's big trunk!”
Then, noticing the glow which his announcement called
up to Carrie's cheek, he said, “she 'll make you well,
Carrie, Maggie will. Oh, I'm so glad, and so is Leno.”

Nearer and nearer came the omnibus, brighter and
deeper grew the flush on Carrie's face, while little Willie
danced up and down with joy.

“It isn't coming here,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “it has
gone by,” and Carrie's feverish heat was succeeded by an
icy chill.

“Have n't they come, Lenora?” she said.

Lenora shook her head, and Willie, running to his sister,
wound his arms around her neck, and for several
minutes the two lone, motherless children wept.

“If Maggie knew how my head ached, she'd come,”
said Willie; but Carrie thought not of her aching head,
nor of the faintness of death which was fast coming on.
One idea alone engrossed her. Her brother;—how would
he be saved from the threatened evil, and her father's
name from dishonor?

At last, Mrs. Hamilton left the room, and Carrie,
speaking to Lenora and one of the villagers who was
present, asked if they, too, would not leave her alone for

a time with Willie. They complied with her request,
and then asking her brother to bring her pencil and paper,
she hurriedly wrote a few lines to her father, telling
him of what she had heard, and entreating him, for her
sake, and the sake of the mother with whom she would
be when those words met his eye, not to do Walter so
great a wrong. “I shall give this to Willie's care,” she
wrote, in conclusion, “and he will keep it carefully until
you come. And now, I bid you a long farewell, my precious
father,—my noble Mag,—my darling Walter.”

The note was finished, and calling Willie to her, she
said, “I am going to die. When Maggie returns I shall
be dead and still, like our own dear mother.”

“Oh Carrie, Carrie,” sobbed the child, “don't leave
me till Maggie comes.”

There was a footstep on the stairs, and Carrie, without
replying to her brother, said quickly, “Take this paper,
Willie, and give it to father when he comes; let no one
see it,—Lenora, mother, nor any one.”

Willie promised compliance, and had but just time to
conceal the note in his bosom ere Mrs. Hamilton entered
the room, accompanied by the physician, to whom she
loudly expressed her regrets that her husband had not
come, saying, that she had that morning telegraphed
again, although he could not now reach home until the
morrow.

“To-morrow I shall never see,” said Carrie, faintly.
And she spoke truly, too, for even then death was freezing
her life-blood with the touch of his icy hand. To the
last she seemed conscious of the tiny arms which so fondly
encircled her neck; and when the soul had drifted far
out on the dark channel of death, the childish words of
“Carrie, Carrie, speak once more,” roused her, and folding
her brother more closely to her bosom, she murmured,

“Willie, darling Willie, our mother is waiting
for us both.”

Mrs. Hamilton, who stood near, now bent down, and
laying her hand on the pale, damp brow, said gently,
“Carrie, dear, have you no word of love for this
mother?”

There was a visible shudder, an attempt to speak, a low
moan, in which the word “Walter” seemed struggling
to be spoken; and then death, as if impatient of delay,
bore away the spirit, leaving only the form which in life
had been most beautiful. Softly Lenora closed over the
blue eyes the long, fringed lids, and pushed back from the
forehead the sunny tresses which clustered so thickly
around it; then, kissing the white lips and leaving on the
face of the dead traces of her tears, she lead Willie from
the room, soothing him in her arms until he fell asleep.

Elsewhere we have said that for a few days Willie had
not seemed well; but so absorbed were all in Carrie's
more alarming symptoms, that no one had heeded him,
although his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his head
was throbbing with pain. He was in the habit of sleeping
in his parents' room, and that night his loud breathings
and uneasy turnings disturbed and annoyed his mother,
who at last called out in harsh tones, “Willie, Willie, for
mercy's sake stop that horrid noise! I shall never get
asleep this way. I know there's no need of breathing like
that!”

“It chokes me so,” sobbed little Willie, “but I'll try.”

Then pressing his hands tightly over his mouth, he
tried the experiment of holding his breath as long as
possible. Hearing no sound from his mother, he thought
her asleep, but not venturing to breathe naturally until
assured of the fact, he whispered, “Ma, ma, are you
asleep?”

“Asleep! no,—and never shall be, as I see! What
do you want?”

“Oh, I want to breathe,” said Willie.

“Well, breathe then; who hinders you?” was the reply;
and ere the offensive sound again greeted her ear,
Mrs. Hamilton was too far gone in slumber to be disturbed.

For two hours Willie lay awake, tossing from side to
side, scorched with fever and longing for water to quench
his burning thirst. By this time Mrs. Hamilton was
again awake; but to his earnest entreaties for water—
“just one little drop of water, ma,”—she answered,
“William Hamilton, if you don't be still, I'll move your
crib into the room where Carrie is, and leave you there
alone!”

Unlike many children, Willie had no fears of the cold,
white figure which lay so still and motionless upon the
parlor sofa. To him it was Carrie, his sister; and many
times that day, had he stolen in alone, and laying back
the thin muslin which shaded her face, he had looked
long upon her;—had laid his hand on her icy cheek,
wondering if she knew how cold she was, and if the way
which she had gone was so long and dark that he could
never find it. To him there was naught to fear in that
room of death, and to his mother's threat he answered,
eagerly, “Oh, ma, give me some water, just a little bit of
water, and you may carry me in there. I ain't afraid,
and my breathing wont wake Carrie up;” but before
he had finished speaking, his mother was again dozing.

“Won't anybody bring me some water,—Maggie,
Carrie,—Leno,—nobody?” murmured poor Willie, as
he wet his pillow with tears.

At last he could bear it no longer. He knew where
the water-bucket stood, and stepping from his bed, he
groped his way down the long stairs to the basement.

The spring moon was low in the western horizon, and
shining through the curtained window, dimly lighted
up the room. The pail was soon reached, and then in his
eagerness to drink, he put his lips to the side. Lower,
lower, lower it came, until he discovered, alas! that the
pail was empty.

“What shall I do? what shall I do?” said he, as he
crouched upon the cold hearth-stone.

A new idea entered his mind. The well stood near the
outer door; and, quickly pushing back the bolt, he went
out, all flushed and feverish as he was, into the chill night
air. There was ice upon the curb-stone, but he did not
mind it, although his little toes, as they trod upon it,
looked red by the pale moonlight. Quickly a cup of the
coveted water was drained; then, with careful forethought,
he filled it again, and taking it back to his room, crept
shivering to bed. Nature was exhausted; and whether
he fainted or fell asleep is not known, for never again to
consciousness in this world awoke the little boy.

The morning sunlight came softly in at the window,
touching his golden curls with a still more golden hue.
Sadly over him Lenora bent, saying, “Willie, Willie!
wake up, Willie. Don't you know me?”

Greatly Mrs. Hamilton marveled whence came the cup
of water which stood there, as if reproaching her for her
cruelty. But the delirious words of the dreamer soon
told her all. “Maggie, Maggie,” he said, “rub my
feet; they feel like Carrie's face. The curb-stone was
cold, but the water was so good. Give me more, more;
mother won't care, for I got it myself, and tried not to
breathe, so she could sleep; — and Carrie, too, is dead—
dead.”

Lenora fiercely grasped her mother's arm, and said,

“How could you refuse him water, and sleep while he got
it himself?”

But Mrs. Hamilton needed not that her daughter
should accuse her. Willie had been her favorite, and the
tears which she dropped upon his pillow were genuine.
The physician who was called, pronounced his disease to
be scarlet fever, saying that its violence was greatly increased
by a severe cold which he had taken.

“You have killed him, mother; you have killed him!”
said Lenora.

Twenty-four hours had passed since, with straining ear,
Carrie had listened for the morning train, and again
down the valley floated the smoke of the engine, and
over the blue hills echoed the loud scream of the locomotive;
but no sound could awaken the fair young sleeper,
though Willie started, and throwing up his hands, one of
which, the right one, was firmly clenched, murmured,
“Maggie, Maggie.”

Ten minutes more, and Margaret was there, weeping
in agony over the inanimate form of her sister, and almost
shrieking as she saw Willie's wild eye, and heard
his incoherent words. Terrible to Mr. Hamilton was this
coming home. Like one who walks in sleep, he went
from room to room, kissing the burning brow of one
child, and then, while the hot breath was yet warm upon
his lips, pressing them to the cold face of the other.

All day Margaret sat by her dying brother, praying
that he might be spared until Walter came. Her prayer
was answered; for at nightfall Walter was with them.
Half an hour after his return, Willie died; but ere his
right hand dropped lifeless by his side, he held it up to
view, saying, “Father,—give it to nobody but father.”

After a moment, Margaret, taking within hers the fast

stiffening hand, gently unclosed the fingers, and found
the crumpled piece of paper on which Carrie had written
to her father.