 | The homestead on the hillside, and other tales |  |
The Homestead on the Hillside.
1. CHAPTER I.
MRS. HAMILTON.
For many years the broad, rich acres, and old fashioned,
massive building known as “The Homestead on
the Hillside,” had passed successively from father to son,
until at last it belonged by right of inheritance to Ernest
Hamilton. Neither time nor expense had been spared in
beautifying and embellishing both house and grounds, and
at the time of which we are speaking, there was not, for
miles around, so lovely a spot as was the shady old
homestead.
It stood at some distance from the road, and on the
bright green lawn in front, were many majestic forest
trees, on which had fallen the lights and shadows of more
than a century; and under whose wide-spreading branches
oft, in the olden time, the Indian warrior had paused from
the chase until the noonday heat was passed. Leading
from the street to the house, was a wide, graveled walk
bordered with box, and peeping out from the wilderness
of vines and climbing roses, were the white walls of the
huge building, which was surrounded on all sides by a
double piazza.
Many and hallowed were the associations connected
with that old homestead. On the curiously carved seats
beneath the tall shade trees, were cut the names of some,
Through the little gate at the foot of the garden, and just
across the brooklet, whose clear waters leaped and laughed
in the glad sunshine, and then went dancing away in the
woodland below, was a quiet spot, where gracefully the
willow tree was bending, where the wild sweet brier was
blooming, and where, too, lay sleeping those who once
gathered round the hearth-stone and basked in the sunlight
which ever seemed resting upon the Homestead on
the Hillside.
But a darker day was coming; a night was approaching
when a deep gloom would overshadow the homestead
and the loved ones within its borders. The servants, ever
superstitious, now whispered mysteriously that the spirits
of the departed returned nightly to their old accustomed
places, and that dusky hands from the graves of the slumbering
dead were uplifted, as if to warn the master of the
domain of the desolation which was to come. For more
than a year the wife of Ernest Hamilton had been dying
— slowly, surely dying — and though when the skies
were brightest and the sunshine warmest she ever seemed
better, each morning's light still revealed some fresh ravage
the disease had made, until at last there was no hope,
and the anxious group which watched her knew full well
that ere long among them would be a vacant chair, and
in the family burying ground an added grave.
One evening Mrs. Hamilton seemed more than usually
restless, and requested her daughters to leave her, that
she might compose herself to sleep. Scarcely was she
alone, when with cat-like tread there glided through the
doorway the dark figure of a woman, who advanced toward
the bedside, noiselessly as a serpent would steal to
his ambush. She was apparently forty-five years of age,
and dressed in deep mourning, which seemed to increase
and glittering, fastened themselves upon the invalid with
a gaze so intense that Mrs. Hamilton's hand involuntarily
sought the bell-rope, to summon some one else to her
room.
But ere the bell was rung, a strangely sweet, musical
voice fell on her ear, and arrested her movements. “Pardon
me for intruding,” said the stranger, “and suffer me
to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Carter, who not long
since removed to the village. I have heard of your illness,
and wishing to render you any assistance in my
power, I have ventured, unannounced, into your presence,
hoping that I at least am not unwelcome.
Mrs. Hamilton had heard of a widow lady, who with
an only daughter had recently removed to the village,
which lay at the foot of the long hill on which stood the
old homestead. She had heard, too, that Mrs. Carter,
though rather singular in some respects, was unusually
benevolent, spending much time in visiting the sick and
needy, and, as far as possible, ministering to their comfort.
Extending her hand, she said, “I know you by reputation,
Mrs. Carter, and feel greatly pleased that you have
thought to visit me. Pray be seated.”
This last invitation was superfluous, for with the air of
a person entirely at home, the lady had seated herself,
and as the room was rather warm, she threw back her
bonnet, disclosing to view a mass of rich brown hair,
which made her look several years younger than she really
was. Nothing could be more apparently kind and sincere
than were her words of sympathy, nothing more
soothing than the sound of her voice; and when she for
a moment raised Mrs. Hamilton, while she adjusted her
pillows, the sick woman declared that never before had
any one done it so gently or so well.
Mrs. Carter was just resuming her seat, when, in the
adjoining hall, there was the sound of a heavy tread, and
had Mrs. Hamilton been at all suspicious of her visitor,
she would have wondered at the flush which deepened on
her cheek when the door opened, and Mr. Hamilton stood
in their midst. On seeing a stranger, he turned to leave,
but his wife immediately introduced him, and seating
himself upon the sofa, he remarked, “I have seen you
frequently in church, Mrs. Carter, but I believe I have
never spoken with you before.”
A peculiar expression flitted over her features at these
words, an expression which Mr. Hamilton noticed, and
which awoke remembrances of something unpleasant,
though he could not tell what.
“Where have I seen her before?” thought he, as she
bade them good night, promising to come again and stay
a longer time. “Where have I seen her before?” and
then involuntarily his thoughts went back to the time,
years and years ago, when a wild young man in college,
he had thoughtlessly trifled with the handsome daughter
of his landlady. Even now he seemed to hear her last
words, as he bade her farewell: “You may go, Ernest
Hamilton, and forget me if you can, but Luella does not
so easily forget; and remember, when least you expect
it, we shall meet again.”
Could this strange being, with honeyed words and winning
ways, be that fiery, vindictive girl? Impossible!
and satisfied with this conclusion, Mr. Hamilton resumed
his evening paper.
2. CHAPTER II.
LENORA AND HER MOTHER.
From the windows of a small, white cottage, at the extremity
of Glenwood village, Lenora Carter watched for
her mother's return. “She stays long,” thought she,
“but it bodes success to her plan; though when did she
undertake a thing and fail!”
The fall of the gate-latch was heard, and in a moment
Mrs. Carter was with her daughter, whose first exclamation
was, “What a little eternity you 've been gone!
Did you renew your early vows to the old man?”
“I 've no vows to renew,” answered Mrs. Carter, “but
I 've paved the way well, and got invited to call again.”
“Oh, capital!” said Lenora. “It takes you, mother, to
do up things, after all; but, really, was Mrs. Hamilton
pleased with you?”
“Judging by the pressure of her hand when she bade
me good-by, I should say she was,” answered Mrs. Carter;
and Lenora continued: “Did you see old Moneybags?”
“Lenora, child, you must not speak so disrespectfully
of Mr. Hamilton,” said Mrs. Carter.
“I beg your pardon,” answered Lenora, while her
mother continued: “I saw him, but do not think he recognized
me; and perhaps it is as well that he should
not, until I have made myself indispensable to him and
his family.”
“Which you will never do with the haughty Mag, I
am sure,” said Lenora; “but tell me, is the interior of
the house as handsome as the exterior?”
“Far more so,” was the reply; and Mrs. Carter proceeded
she had seen.
She was interrupted by Lenora, who asked, “How
long, think you, will the incumbrance live?”
“Lenora,” said Mrs. Carter, “you shall not talk so.
No one wishes Mrs. Hamilton to die; but if such an afflictive
dispensation does occur, I trust we shall all be
resigned.”
“Oh, I keep forgetting that you are acting the part of
a resigned widow; but I, thank fortune, have no part to
act, and can say what I please.”
“And spoil all our plans, too, by your foolish babbling,”
interposed Mrs. Carter.
“Let me alone for that,” answered Lenora. “I haven't
been trained by such a mother for nothing. But, seriously,
how is Mrs. Hamilton's health?”
“She is very low, and cannot possibly live long,” was
the reply.
Here there was a pause in the conversation, during
which we will take the opportunity of introducing more
fully to our readers the estimable Mrs. Carter and her
daughter. Mr. Hamilton was right when he associated
the resigned widow with his old flame, Luella Blackburn,
whom he had never seriously thought of marrying,
though by way of pastime he had frequently teased, tormented,
and flattered her. Luella was ambitious, artful,
and designing. Wealth and position was the goal at
which she aimed. Both of these she knew Ernest Hamilton
possessed, and she had felt greatly pleased at his evident
preference. When, therefore, at the end of his college
course he left her with a few commonplace remarks,
such as he would have spoken to any familiar acquaintance,
her rage knew no bounds; and in the anger of the
upon him.
Years, however, passed on, and a man whom she
thought wealthy offered her his hand. She accepted it,
and found, too late, that she was wedded to poverty.
This aroused the evil of her nature to such an extent, that
her husband's life became one of great unhappiness, and
four years after Lenora's birth, he left her. Several
years later she succeeded in procuring a divorce, although
she still retained his name. Recently she had heard of
his death, and about the same time, too, she heard that
the wife of Ernest Hamilton was dying. Suddenly a wild
scheme entered her mind. She would remove to the village
of Glenwood, would ingratiate herself into the favor
of Mrs. Hamilton, win her confidence and love, and then,
when she was dead, the rest she fancied would be an easy
matter, for she knew that Mr. Hamilton was weak, and
easily flattered.
For several weeks they had been in Glenwood, impatiently
waiting an opportunity for making the acquaintance
of the Hamiltons. But as neither Margaret nor
Carrie called, Lenora became discouraged, and one day
exclaimed, “I should like to know what you are going
to do. There is no probability of that proud Mag's calling
on me. How I hate her, with her big black eyes and
hateful ways!”
“Patience, patience,” said Mrs. Carter, “I 'll manage
it; as Mrs. Hamilton is sick, it will be perfectly proper
for me to go and see her;” and then was planned the
visit which we have described.
“Oh, won't it be grand!” said Lenora, that night, as
she sat sipping her tea, “Won't it be grand, if you do
succeed, and won't I lord it over Miss Margaret! As
for that little white-faced Carrie, she's too insipid for
a very nice woman, for how can her Sabbath-school
teacher be otherwise;” and a satirical laugh echoed
through the room. Suddenly springing up, Lenora
glanced at herself in the mirror, and turning to her
mother, said, “Did you hear when Walter is expected,
and am I so very ugly looking?”
While Mrs. Carter is preparing an answer to the first
question, we, for the sake of our readers, will answer the
last one. Lenora was a little, dark-looking girl, about
eighteen years of age. Her eyes were black, her face
was black, and her hair was black, standing out from her
head in short, thick curls, which gave to her features a
strange, witch-like expression. From her mother she
had inherited the same sweet, cooing voice, the same
gliding, noiseless footsteps, which had led some of their
acquaintance to accuse them of what, in the days of New
England witchcraft, would have secured their passport to
another world.
Lenora had spoken truthfully when she said that she had
not been trained by such a mother for nothing, for whatever
of evil appeared in her conduct was more the result
of her mother's training than of a naturally bad disposition.
At times, her mother petted and caressed her, and
again, in a fit of ill humor, drove her from the room,
taunting her with the strong resemblance which she bore
to the man whom she had once called father! On such
occasions, Lenora was never at a loss for words, and the
scenes which sometimes occurred were too disgraceful
for repetition. On one subject, however, they were
united, and that was in their efforts to become inmates
of the Homestead on the Hillside. In the accomplishment
of this, Lenora had a threefold object: first, it
would secure her a luxuriant home; second, she would
about finishing his college course; and last, though not
least, it would be such a triumph over Margaret, who, she
fancied, treated her with cold indifference.
Long after the hour of midnight was rung from the
village clock, the widow and her daughter sat by their
fireside, forming plans for the future, and when at last
they retired to sleep, it was to dream of funeral processions,
bridal favors, step-children, half-sisters, and double
connections all around.
3. CHAPTER III.
ONE STEP TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD.
Weeks passed on, and so necessary to the comfort of
the invalid did the presence of Mrs. Carter become, that
at last, by particular request, she took up her abode at
the homestead, becoming Mrs. Hamilton's constant nurse
and attendant. Lenora, for the time being, was sent to
the house of a friend, who lived not far distant. When
Margaret Hamilton learned of the arrangement, she opposed
it with all her force.
“Send her away, mother,” said she one evening;
“please send her away, for I cannot endure her presence,
with her oily words and silent footsteps. She reminds
me of the serpent, who decoyed Eve into eating that apple,
and I always feel an attack of the nightmare, whenever
I know that her big, black eyes are fastened upon
me.”
“How differently people see,” laughed Carrie, who was
nightmare when your big eyes light upon her.”
“It's because she knows she's guilty,” answered Mag,
her words and manner warming up with the subject.
“Say, mother, won't you send her off? It seems as
though a dark shadow falls upon us all the moment she
enters the house.”
“She is too invaluable a nurse to be discharged for a
slight whim,” answered Mrs. Hamilton. “Besides, she
bears the best of reputations, and I don't see what possible
harm can come of her being here.”
Margaret sighed, for though she knew full well the “possible
harm” which might come of it, she could not tell it
to her pale, dying mother; and ere she had time for any
answer, the black bombasin dress, white linen collar, and
white, smooth face of Widow Carter moved silently into
the room. There was a gleam of intense hatred in the
dark eyes which for a moment flashed on Margaret's face,
and then a soft hand gently stroked the glossy hair of
the indignant girl, and in the most musical tones imaginable,
a low voice murmured, “Maggie, dear, you look
flushed and wearied. Are you quite well?”
“Perfectly so,” answered Margaret; and then rising,
she left the room, but not until she had heard her mother
say, “Dear Mrs. Carter, I am so glad you've come!”
“Is everybody bewitched,” thought Mag, as she repaired
to her chamber, “father, mother, Carrie, and all?
How I wish Walter was here. He always sees things as
I do.”
Margaret Hamilton was a high spirited, intelligent girl,
about nineteen years of age. She was not beautiful, but
had you asked for the finest looking girl in all Glenwood,
Mag would surely have been pointed out. She was
rather above the medium height, and in her whole bearing
hauteur. Naturally frank, affectionate, and kind-hearted,
she was, perhaps, a little strong in her prejudices, which,
when once satisfactorily formed, could not easily be
shaken.
For Mrs. Carter she had conceived a strong dislike, for
she believed her to be an artful, hypocritical woman;
and now, as she sat by the window in her room, her heart
swelled with indignation toward one who had thus
usurped her place by her mother's bedside, whom Carrie
was learning to confide in, and of whom even the
father said, “she is a most excellent woman.”
“I will write to Walter,” said she, “and tell him to
come immediately.”
Suiting the action to the word, she drew up her writing
desk, and soon a finished letter was lying before her.
Ere she had time to fold and direct it, a loud cry from
her young brother Willie, summoned her for a few moments
from the room, and on her return, she met in the
doorway the black bombasin and linen collar.
“Madam,” said she, “did you wish for anything?”
“Yes, dear,” was the soft answer, which, however, in
this case failed to turn away wrath. “Yes, dear, your
mother said you knew where there were some fine bits
of linen.”
“And could not Carrie come for them?” asked Mag.
“Yes, dear, but she looks so delicate that I do not like
to send her up these long stairs oftener than is necessary.
Have n't you noticed how pale she is getting of late? I
shouldn't be at all surprised—;” but before the sentence
was finished, the linen was found, and the door
closed upon Mrs. Carter.
A new idea had been awakened in Margaret's mind,
and for the first time she thought how much her sister really
than Margaret, had ever been delicate, and her parents
had always feared that not long could they keep her; but
though each winter her cough had returned with increased
severity, though the veins on her white brow
grew more distinct, and her large, blue eyes glowed with
unwonted luster, still Margaret had never before dreamed
of danger, never thought that soon her sister's voice
would be missed, and that Carrie would be gone. But
she thought of it now, and laying her head upon the table,
wept for a time in silence.
At length, drying her tears, she folded her letter and
took it to the post-office. As she was returning home,
she was met by a servant, who exclaimed, “Run, Miss
Margaret, run; your mother is dying, and Mrs. Carter
sent me for you!”
Swift as the mountain chamois, Margaret sped up the
long, steep hill, and in a few moments stood within her
mother's sick-room. Supported in the arms of Mrs. Carter
lay the dying woman, while her eyes, already overshadowed
with the mists of coming death, wandered anxiously
around the room, as if in quest of some one. The
moment Margaret appeared, a satisfied smile broke over
her wasted features, and beckoning her daughter to her
bedside, she whispered, “Dear Maggie, you did not think
I'd die so soon, when you went away.”
A burst of tears was Maggie's only answer, as she passionately
kissed the cold, white lips, which had never
breathed aught to her save words of love and gentleness.
Far different, however, would have been her reply, had
she known the reason of her mother's question. Not
long after she had left the house for the office, Mrs.
Hamilton had been taken worse, and the physician, who
chanced to be present, pronounced her dying. Instantly
but Mag was missing. No one had seen her; no one
knew where she was, until Mrs. Carter, who had been
some little time absent from the room, reëntered it, saying,
“Margaret had started for the post-office with a letter,
when I sent a servant to tell her of her mother's danger,
but for some reason she kept on, though I dare say
she will soon be back.”
As we well know, the substance of this speech was
true, though the impression which Mrs. Carter's words
conveyed was entirely false. For the advancement of her
own cause, she felt that it was necessary to weaken the
high estimation in which Mr. Hamilton held his daughter,
and she fancied that the mother's death-bed was as
fitting a place where to commence operations as she could
select.
As Margaret hung over her mother's pillow, the false
woman, as if to confirm the assertion she had made,
leaned forward and said, “Robin told you, I suppose? I
sent him to do so.”
Margaret nodded assent, while a deeper gloom fell
upon the brow of Mr. Hamilton, who stood with folded
arms, watching the advance of the great destroyer. It
came at last, and though no perceptible change heralded
its approach, there was one fearful spasm, one long drawn
sigh, a striving of the eye for one more glimpse of the
loved ones gathered near, and then Mrs. Hamilton was
dead. On the bosom of Mrs. Carter her life was breathed
away, and when all was over, that lady laid gently down
her burden, carefully adjusted the tumbled covering, and
then stepping to the window, looked out, while the
stricken group deplored their loss.
Long and bitterly over their dead they wept, but not
on one of that weeping band fell the bolt so crushingly
summers old, who had ever lived in the light of his mother's
love. They had told him she would die, but he understood
them not, for never before had he looked on
death; and now, when to his childish words of love
his mother made no answer, most piteously rang out
the infantile cry, “Mother, oh, my mother, who'll be my
mother now?”
Caressingly, a small, white hand was laid on Willie's
yellow curls, but ere the words of love were spoken,
Margaret took the little fellow in her arms, and whispered,
through her tears, “I'll be your mother, darling.”
Willie brushed the tear-drops from his sister's cheek,
and laying his fair, round face upon her neck, said, “And
who'll be Maggie's mother? Mrs. Carter?”
“Never! never!” answered Mag, while to the glance
of hatred and defiance cast upon her, she returned one
equally scornful and determined.
Soon from the village there came words of sympathy
and offers of assistance; but Mrs. Carter could do everything,
and in her blandest tones she declined the services
of the neighbors, refusing even to admit them into the
presence of Margaret and Carrie, who, she said, were so
much exhausted as to be unable to bear the fresh burst
of grief which the sight of an old friend would surely
produce. So the neighbors went home, and, as the world
will ever do, descanted upon the probable result of Mrs.
Carter's labors at the homestead. Thus, ere Ernest Hamilton
had been three days a widower, many in fancy had
wedded him to Mrs Carter, saying that nowhere could
he find so good a mother for his children.
And truly she did seem to be indispensable in that
house of mourning. 'Twas she who saw that everything
was done, quietly and in order; 't was she who so neatly
the half fainting Carrie when first her eye rested
on her mother, coffined for the grave; 't was she who
whispered words of comfort to the desolate husband; and
she, too, it was, who, on the night when Walter was expected
home, kindly sat up until past midnight to receive
him!
She had read Mag's letter, and by being first to welcome
the young man home, she hoped to remove from his mind
any prejudice which he might feel for her, and by her
bland smiles and gentle words to lure him into the belief
that she was perfect, and Margaret uncharitable. Partially
she succeeded, too, for when next morning Mag
expressed a desire that Mrs. Carter would go home, he
replied, “I think you judge her wrongfully; she seems to
be a most amiable, kind-hearted woman.”
“Et tu, Brute!” Mag could have said, but 't was neither
the time nor the place, and linking her arm within her
brother's, she led him into the adjoining room, where
stood their mother's coffin.
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
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
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
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
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,
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.
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.
6. CHAPTER VI.
RAISING THE WIND.
“Where are you going now?” asked Mrs. Carter of
her daughter, as she saw her preparing to go out one
afternoon, a few weeks after the engagement.
“Going to raise the wind,” was the answer.
“Going to what?” exclaimed Mrs. Carter.
“To raise the wind! Are you deaf?” yelled Lenora.
“Raise the wind!” repeated Mrs. Carter; “what do
you mean?”
“Mean what I say,” said Lenora; and closing the door
after her she left her mother to wonder “what fresh mischief
the little torment was at.”
But she was only going to make a friendly call on
Margaret and Carrie, the latter of whom she had heard
was sick.
“Is Miss Hamilton at home?” asked she of the servant
girl, who answered her ring, and whom she had
never seen before.
Yes, ma'am; walk in the parlor. What name shall I
give her if you please?”
“Miss Carter,—Lenora Carter;” and the servant girl
departed, repeating to herself all the way up the stairs,
“Miss Carther,—Lenora Carther!”
“Lenora Carter want to see me!” exclaimed Mag,
who, together with Kate Kirby, was in her sister's room.
“Yes, ma'am; an' sure 'twas Miss Hampleton she was
wishin' to see,” said the Irish girl.
“Well, I shall not go down,” answered Mag. “Tell
her, Rachel, that I am otherwise engaged.”
“Oh, Maggie,” said Carrie, “why not see her? I
would if I were you.”
“Rachel can ask her up here if you wish it,” answered
Mag, “but I shall leave the room.”
“Faith, an' what shall I do?” asked Rachel, who was
fresh from “swate Ireland” and felt puzzled to know why
a “silk frock and smart bonnet” should not always be
welcome.
“Ask her up,” answered Kate. “I've never seen her
nearer than across the church and have some curiosity —”
A moment after Rachel thrust her head in at the parlor
door, saying, “If you please, ma'am, Miss Marget is
engaged, and does not want to see you, but Miss Carrie
says you may come up there.”
“Very well,” said Lenora; and tripping after the servant
girl, she was soon in Carrie's room.
After retailing nearly all the gossip of which she was
mistress, she suddenly turned to Carrie, and said, “Did
you know that your father was going to be married?”
“My father going to be married!” said Carrie, opening
her blue eyes in astonishment. “My father going to
be married! To whom, pray?”
“To a lady from the east,—one whom he used to know
grave reply.
“What is her name?” asked Kate.
“Her name? Let me see,— Miss — Blackwell,— Blackmer,—
Blackheart. It sounds the most like Blackheart.”
“What a queer name,” said Kate, “but tell us what
opportunity has Mr. Hamilton had of renewing his early
acquaintance with the lady.”
“Don't you know he's been east this winter?” asked
Lenora.
“Yes, as far as Albany,” answered Carrie.
“Well,” continued Lenora, “'t was during his eastern
trip that the matter was settled; but pray don't repeat
it from me, except it be to Maggie, who, I dare say, will
feel glad to be relieved of her heavy responsibilities;—but
as I live, Carrie, you are crying! What is the matter?”
But Carrie made no answer, and for a time wept on in
silence. She could not endure the thought that another
would so soon take the place of her lost mother in the
household and in the affections of her father. There was,
besides, something exceedingly annoying in the manner
of her who communicated the intelligence, and secretly
Carrie felt glad that the dreaded, “Miss Blackheart” had,
of course, no Lenora to bring with her!
“Do you know all this to be true?” asked Kate.
“Perfectly true,” said Lenora. “We have friends living
in the vicinity of the lady, and there can be no mistake,
except indeed in the name, which I am not sure is
right!”
Then hastily kissing Carrie, the little hussy went away,
very well satisfied with her afternoon's call. As soon as
she was out of hearing Margaret entered her sister's room,
and on noticing Carrie's flushed cheek and red eyes, inquired
had said, but instead of weeping as Carrie had done,
she betrayed no emotion whatever.
“Why, Maggie, ain't you sorry?” asked Carrie.
“No, I am glad,” returned Mag. “I've seen all along
that sooner or later father would make himself ridiculous,
and I'd rather he'd marry forty women from the east,
than one woman not far from here whom I know.”
All that afternoon Mag tripped with unwonted gayety
about the house. A weight was lifted from her heart,
for in her estimation, any one whom her father would
marry was preferable to Mrs. Carter.
Oh, how the widow scolded the daughter, and how the
daughter laughed at the widow, when she related the particulars
of her call.
“Lenora, what could have possessed you to tell such a
lie?” said Mrs. Carter.
“Not so fast, mother mine,” answered Lenora.
“'Twasn't a lie. Mr. Hamilton is engaged to a lady
from the east. He did flirt with her in his younger days;
and, pray, didn't he have to come east when he called to
inquire after his beloved classmates, and ended by getting
checkmated! Besides I think you ought to thank me
for turning the channel of gossip in another direction,
for now you will be saved from all impertinent questions
and remarks.”
This mode of reasoning failed to convince the widow,
who felt quite willing that people should know of her
flattering prospects; and when, a few days after, Mrs.
Dr. Otis told her that Mrs. Kimball said that Polly Larkins
said, that her hired girl told her, that Mrs. Kirby's
her mother, that Lenora Carter said that Mr. Hamilton
was going to be married to her mother's intimate friend,
Mrs. Carter would have denied the whole, and probably
divulged her own secret, had not Lenora, who chanced
to be present, declared, with the coolest effrontery, that
'twas all true—that her mother had promised to stand up
with them; and so folks would find it to be if they did
not die of curiosity before autumn!
Lenora, child, how can you talk so?” asked the distressed
lady, as the door closed upon her visitor.
Lenora went off into fits of explosive laughter, bounding
up and down like an India rubber ball, and at last
condescended to say, “I know what I'm about. Do you
want Mag Hamilton breaking up the match, as she surely
would do, between this and autumn, if she knew it?”
“And what can she do?” asked Mrs. Carter.
“Why, returned Lenora, “can't she write to the place
you came from, if, indeed, such a spot can be found, for
I believe you sometimes book yourself from one town
and sometimes from another? But depend upon it, you
had better take my advice and keep still, and in the denouément
which follows, I alone shall be blamed for a
slight stretch of truth which you can easily excuse, as
“one of dear Lenora's silly, childish freaks!”
Upon second thoughts Mrs. Carter concluded to follow
her daughter's advice, and the next time Mr. Hamilton
called, she laughingly told the story which Lenora
had set afloat, saying, by way of excuse, that the dear
girl did not like to hear her mother joked on the subject
of matrimony, and had turned the attention of people
another way.
Mr. Hamilton hardly relished this, and half wished,
mayhap, as, indeed, gentlemen generally do in similar circumstances,
Lenora, had never had existence, or at least had never
called the widow mother!
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE STEP-MOTHER.
Rapidly the summer was passing away, and as autumn
drew near, the wise gossips of Glenwood began to whisper
that the lady from the east was in danger of being
supplanted in her rights by the widow, whose house Mr.
Hamilton was known to visit two or three times each
week. But Lenora had always some plausible story on
hand. “Mother and the lady had been so intimate — in
fact more than once rocked in the same cradle — and
't was no wonder Mr. Hamilton came often to a place
where he could hear so much about her.”
So when business again took Mr. Hamilton to Albany,
suspicion was wholly lulled, and Walter, on his return
from college, was told by Mag that her fears concerning
Mrs. Carter were groundless. During the spring, Carrie
had been confined to her bed, but now she seemed much
better, and after Walter had been at home awhile, he
proposed that he and his sisters should take a traveling
excursion, going first to Saratoga, thence to Lake Champlain
and Montreal, and returning home by way of Canada
and the Falls. This plan Mr. Hamilton warmly seconded,
and when Carrie asked if he would not feel lonely, he
answered, “Oh, no; Willie and I will do very well while
you are gone.”
“But who will stay with Willie evenings, when you
are away?” asked Mag, looking her father steadily in
the face.
Mr. Hamilton colored slightly, but after a moment, replied:
“I shall spend my evenings at home.”
“'Twill be what he hasn't done for many a week,”
thought Mag, as she again busied herself with her
preparations.
The morning came, at last, on which our travelers were
to leave. Kate Kirby had been invited to accompany
them, but her mother would not consent. “It would
give people too much chance for talk,” she said; so Kate
was obliged to content herself with going as far as the
depot, and watching, until out of sight, the car which
bore them away.
Upon the piazza stood the little group, awaiting the
arrival of the carriage, which was to convey them to the
station. Mr. Hamilton seemed unusually gloomy, and
with folded arms paced up and down the long piazza,
rarely speaking or noticing any one.
“Are you sorry we are going, father?” asked Carrie,
going up to him. “If you are, I will gladly stay with
you.”
Mr. Hamilton paused, and pushing back the fair hair
from his daughter's white brow, he kissed her tenderly,
saying, “No, Carrie; I want you to go. The journey
will do you good, for you are getting too much the look
your poor mother used to wear.”
Why thought he then of Carrie's mother? Was it because
he knew that ere his child returned to him, another
would be in that mother's place? Anon, Margaret came
near, and motioning Carrie away, Mr. Hamilton took his
other daughter's hand, and led her to the end of the
piazza, where could easily be seen the little grave-yard,
sky, where dwelt the one whose grave that costly marble
marked.
Pointing out the spot to Margaret, he said, “Tell me
truly, Maggie, did you love your father or your mother
best?”
Mag looked wonderingly at him a moment, and then
replied, “While mother lived, I loved her more than you,
but now that she is dead, I think of and love you as both
father and mother.”
“And will you always love me thus?” asked he.
“Always,” was Mag's reply, as she looked curiously in
her father's face, and thinking that he had not said what
he intended to when first he drew her there.
Just then the carriage drove up, and after a few good-bys
and parting words, Ernest Hamilton's children were
gone, and he was left alone.
“Why didn't I tell her, as I intended to?” thought
he. “Is it because I fear her,—fear my own child? No,
it cannot be,—and yet there is that in her eye which
sometimes makes me quail, and which, if necessary, would
keep at bay a dozen step-mothers. But neither she, nor
either one of them, has ought to dread from Mrs. Carter,
whose presence will, I think, be of great benefit to us all,
and whose gentle manners, I trust, will tend to soften
Mag!”
Meantime his children were discussing and wondering
at the strange mood of their father. Walter, however,
took no part in the conversation. He had lived longer
than his sisters,—had seen more of human nature, and
had his own suspicions with regard to what would take
place during their absence; but he could not spoil all
Margaret's happiness by telling her his thoughts, so he
kept them to himself, secretly resolving to make the best
same.
Now for a time we leave them, and take a look into
the cottage of Widow Carter, where, one September morning,
about three weeks after the departure of the Hamiltons,
preparations were making for some great event. In
the kitchen a servant girl was busily at work, while in the
parlor Lenora was talking and the widow was listening.
“Oh, mother,” said Lenora, “isn't it so nice that they
went away just now? But won't Mag look daggers at
us, when she comes home and finds us in quiet possession,
and is told to call you mother!”
“I never expect her to do that,” answered Mrs. Carter.
“The most I can hope for is that she will call me Mrs.
Hamilton.”
“Now really, mother, if I were in Mag's place, I
wouldn't please you enough to say Mrs. Hamilton; I'd
always call you Mrs. Carter,” said Lenora.
“How absurd,” was the reply; and Lenora continued:
“I know it's absurd, but I'd do it; though if she does, I,
as the dutiful child of a most worthy parent, shall feel
compelled to resent the insult by calling her father Mr.
Carter!”
By this time Mrs. Carter was needed in the kitchen;
so, leaving Lenora, who at once was the pest and torment
of her mother's life, we will go into the village and see
what effect the approaching nuptials were producing. It
was now generally known that the “lady from the east”
who had been “rocked in Mrs. Carter's cradle,” was none
other than Mrs. Carter herself, and many were the reproving
looks which the people had cast toward Lenora
for the trick she had put upon them. The little hussy
only laughed at them good humoredly, telling them they
were angry because she had cheated them out of five
way, she would have sent the news to the Herald and had
it inserted under the head of “Awful Catastrophe!”
Thus Mrs. Carter was exonerated from all blame; but
many a wise old lady shook her head, saying, “How
strange that so fine a woman as Mrs. Carter should have
such a reprobate of a daughter.”
When this remark came to Lenora's ears, she cut numerous
flourishes, which ended in the upsetting of a bowl
of starch on her mother's new black silk; then dancing
before the highly indignant lady, she said, “Perhaps if
they knew what a scapegrace you represent my father to
have been, and how you whipped me once to make me
say I saw him strike you, when I never did, they would
wonder at my being as good as I am.”
Mrs. Carter was too furious to venture a verbal reply;
so seizing the starch bowl, she hurled it with the remainder
of the contents at the head of the little vixen, who,
with an elastic bound, not entirely unlike a summerset,
dodged the missile, which passed on and fell upon the
hearth rug.
This is but one of a series of similar scenes, which occurred
between the widow and her child before the happy
day arrived, when, in the presence of a select few of the
villagers, Luella Carter was transformed into Luella Hamilton.
The ceremony was scarcely over, when Mr. Hamilton,
who for a few days had been rather indisposed,
complained of feeling sick. Immediately Lenora, with a
sidelong glance at her mother, exclaimed, “What, sick
of your bargain so quick? It's sooner, even, than I
thought 't would be, and I'm sure I'm capable of
judging.”
“Dear Lenora,” said Mrs. Carter, turning toward one
am afraid Mr. Hamilton will find her troublesome.
“Don't be alarmed, mother; he'll never think of me
when you are around,” was Lenora's reply, in which Mrs.
Carter saw more than one meaning.
That evening the bridal party repaired to the homestead,
where, at Mr. Hamilton's request, Mrs. Kirby was
waiting to receive them. Willie had been told by the
servants that his mother was coming home that night,
and, with the trusting faith of childhood, he had drawn a
chair to the window from which he could see his mother's
grave; and there for more than an hour he watched for
the first indications of her coming, saying, occasionally,
“Oh, I wish she'd come. Willie's so sorry here.”
At last growing weary and discouraged, he turned
away and said, “No ma 'll never come home again; Maggie
said she wouldn't.”
Upon the carriage road which wound from the street
to the house, there was the sound of coming wheels, and
Rachel, seizing Willie, bore him to the front door, exclaiming,
“An' faith, Willie, don't you see her? That's
your mother, honey, with the black gown.”
But Willie saw only the wild eyes of Lenora, who
caught him in her arms, overwhelming him with caresses.
“Let me go, Leno,” said he “I want to see my ma.
Where is she?”
A smile of scorn curled Lenora's lips, as she released
him, and leading him toward her mother, she said,
“There she is; there's your ma. Now hold up your
head and make a bow.”
Willie's lip quivered, his eyes filled with tears, and
hiding his face in his apron, he sobbed, “I want my own
ma,— the one they shut up in a big black box. Where
is she, Leno?
Mr. Hamilton took Willie on his knee, and tried to explain
to him, how that now his own mother was dead, he
had got a new one, who would love him and be kind to
him. Then putting him down, he said, “Go, my son, and
speak to her, won't you?”
Willie advanced rather cautiously toward the black
silk figure, which reached out its hand, saying, “Dear
Willie, you'll love me a little, won't you?”
“Yes, if you are good to me,” was the answer, which
made the new step-mother mentally exclaim, “A young
rebel, I know,” while Lenora, bending between the two,
whispered emphatically, “She shall be good to you!”
And soon, in due order, the servants were presented to
their new mistress. Some were disposed to like her,
others eyed her askance, and old Polly Pepper, the black
cook, who had been in the family ever since Mr. Hamilton's
first marriage, returned her salutation rather gruffly,
and then, stalking back to the kitchen, muttered to those
who followed her, “I don't like her face no how; she
looks just like the milk-snakes, when they stick their heads
in at the door.”
“But you knew how she looked before,” said Lucy, the
chambermaid.
“I know it,” returned Polly; “but when she was here
nussin', I never noticed her, more'n I would any on you;
for who'd of thought that Mr. Hamilton would marry
her, when he knows, or or'to know, that nusses ain't fust
cut, no how; and you may depend on't, things ain't a
goin' to be here as they used to be.”
Here Rachel started up, and related the circumstance of
Margaret's refusing to see “that little evil-eyed lookin'
varmint, with curls almost like Polly's.”
Lucy, too, suddenly remembered something which she
had seen, or heard, or made up, so that Mrs. Carter had
mutiny against her afloat in the kitchen; “But,” said
Aunt Polly, “I 'vises you all to be civil till she sasses you
fust!”
“My dear, what room can Lenora have for her own?”
asked Mrs, Hamilton, as we must now call her, the morning
following her marriage.
“Why, really, I don't know,” answered the husband;
“you must suit yourselves with regard to that.”
“Yes; but I'd rather you'd select, and then no one can
blame me,” was the answer.
“Choose any room you please, except the one which
Mag and Carrie now occupy, and rest assured you shall
not be blamed,” said Mr. Hamilton.
The night before, Lenora had appropriated to herself
the best chamber, but the room was so large and so far
distant from any one, and the windows and fireboard rattled
so, that she felt afraid, and did not care to repeat her
experiment.
“I 'clar for 't!” said Polly, when she heard of it,
“Gone right into the best bed, where even Miss Margaret
never goes! What are we all comin' to? Tell her,
Luce, the story of the ghosts, and I'll be bound she'll make
herself scarce in them rooms!”
“Tell her yourself,” said Lucy; and when, after breakfast,
Lenora, anxious to spy out everything, appeared in
the kitchen, Aunt Polly called out, “Did you hear anything
last night, Miss Lenora?”
“Why, yes—I heard the windows rattle,” was the answer;
and Aunt Polly, with an ominous shake of the
head, continued: “There's more than windows rattle, I
go a whizzin' and rappin' by your bed?”
“Why, no,” said Lenora; “what do you mean?”
So Polly told her of the ghosts and goblins which
nightly ranged the two chambers, over the front and back
parlors. Lenora said nothing, but she secretly resolved
not to venture again after dark into the haunted portion
of the house. But where should she sleep? That was
now the important question. Adjoining the sitting-room
was a pleasant, cozy little place, which Margaret called
her music-room. In it she kept her piano, her music-stand,
books, and several fine plants, besides numerous
other little conveniences. At the end of this room was a
large closet, where, at different seasons of the year, Mag
hung away the articles of clothing which she and her sister
did not need.
Toward this place Lenora turned her eyes; for, besides
being unusually pleasant, it was also very near her mother,
whose sleeping-room joined, though it did not communicate
with it. Accordingly, before noon the piano was removed
to the parlor; the plants were placed, some on
the piazza, and some in the sitting-room window, while
Margaret and Carrie's dresses were removed to the closet
of their room, which chanced to be a trifle too small to
hold them all conveniently; so they were crowded one
above the other, and left for “the girls to see to when
they came home!”
In perfect horror Aunt Polly looked on, regretting for
once the ghost story which she had told.
“Why don't you take the chamber jinin' the young ladies?
that ain't haunted,” said she, when they sent for
her to help move the piano. “Miss Margaret won't thank
you for scatterin' her things.”
“You've nothing to do with Lenora,” said Mrs. Hamilton;
“you've only to attend to your own matters.”
“Wonder then what I'm up here for a h'istin' this pianner,”
muttered Polly. “This ain't my matters, sartin'.”
When Mr. Hamilton came in to dinner, he was shown
the little room with its single bed, tiny bureau, silken
lounge and easy chair, of which the last two were Mag's
especial property.
“All very nice,” said he, “but where is Mag's piano?”
“In the parlor,” answered his wife. “People often
ask for music, and it is more convenient to have it there,
than to come across the hall and through the sitting-room.”
Mr. Hamilton said nothing, but he secretly wished
Mag's rights had not been invaded quite so soon. His
wife must have guessed as much; for, laying her hand on
his, she, with the utmost deference, offered to undo all
she had done, if it did not please him.
“Certainly not — certainly not; it does please me,”
said he; while Polly, who stood on the cellar stairs listening,
exclaimed, “What a fool a woman can make of a
man!”
Three days after Mr. Hamilton's marriage, he received
a letter from Walter, saying that they would be at home
on the Thursday night following. Willie was in ecstasies,
for though, as yet, he liked his new mother tolerably well,
he still loved Maggie better; and the thought of seeing
her again made him wild with delight. All day long on
Thursday he sat in the doorway, listening for the shrill
cry of the train which was to bring her home.
“Don't you love Maggie?” said he to Lenora, who
chanced to pass him.
“Don't I love Maggie? No, I don't; neither does
she love me,” was the answer.
Willie was puzzled to know why any one should not
like Mag; but his confidence in her was not at all shaken,
and when, soon after sunset, Lenora cried, “There,
they've come,” he rushed to the door, and was soon in
the arms of his sister-mother. Pressing his lips to hers,
he said, “Did you know I'd got a new mother? Mrs.
Carter and Leno — they are in there,” pointing toward
the parlor.
Instantly Mag dropped him. It was the first intimation
of her father's marriage which she had received, and
reeling backward, she would have fallen, had not Walter
supported her. Quickly rallying, she advanced toward
her father, who came to meet her, and whose hand trembled
in her grasp. After greeting each of his children,
he turned to present them to his wife, wisely taking Carrie
first. She was not prejudiced, like Mag, and returned
her step-mother's salutation with something like affection,
for which Lenora rewarded her by terming her a
“little simpleton.”
But Mag—she who had warned her father against that
woman — she who on her knees had begged him not to
marry her—she had no word of welcome, and when Mrs.
Hamilton offered her hand, she affected not to see it,
though, with the most frigid politeness, she said, “Good
evening, madam; this is, indeed, a surprise!”
“And not a very pleasant one, either, I imagine,” whispered
Lenora to Carrie.
Walter came last, and though he took the lady's hand,
there was something in his manner which plainly said,
she was not wanted there. Tea was now announced, and
Mag bit her lip when she saw her accustomed seat occupied
by another.
Feigning to recollect herself, Mrs. Hamilton, in the
prefer this seat?”
“Of course not,” said Mag; while Lenora thought to
herself, “And if she does, I wonder what good it will
do?”
That young lady, however, made no remarks, for Walter
Hamilton's searching eyes were upon her and kept
her silent. After tea, Walter said, “Come, Mag, I have
not heard your piano in a long time. Give us some
music.”
Mag arose to comply with his wishes, but ere she had
reached the door, Mrs. Hamilton, gently detained her,
saying, “Maggie, dear, Lenora, has always slept near me,
and as I knew you would not object, if you were here,
I took the liberty to remove your piano to the parlor, and
to fit this up for Lenora's sleeping room. See—” and she
threw open the door, disclosing the metamorphose, while
Willie, who began to get an inkling of matters, and who
always called the piazza “out doors,” chimed in, “And
they throw'd your little trees out doors, too!”
Mag stood for a moment, mute with astonishment;
then, thinking she could not “do the subject justice,”
she turned silently away. A roguish smile from Walter
met her eye, but she did not laugh, until, with Carrie,
she repaired to her own room, and tried to put something
in the closet. Then coming upon the pile of extra
clothes, she exclaimed, “What in the world! Here's all
our winter clothing, and, as I live, five dresses crammed
upon one nail! We'll have to move to the barn, next!”
This was too much, and sitting down, Mag cried and
laughed alternately.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD.
For a few weeks after Margaret's return, matters at
the homestead glided on smoothly enough, but at the end
of that time Mrs. Hamilton began to reveal her real character.
Carrie's journey had not been as beneficial as her
father had hoped it would be, and as the days grew colder,
she complained of extreme languor and a severe pain in
her side, and at last kept her room entirely, notwithstanding
the numerous hints from her step-mother, that it was
no small trouble to carry so many dishes up and down
stairs three times a day.
Mrs. Hamilton was naturally very stirring and active,
and in spite of her remarkable skill in nursing, she felt exceedingly
annoyed when any of her own family were ill.
She fancied, too, that Carrie was feigning all her bad
feelings, and that she would be much better if she exerted
herself more. Accordingly, one afternoon when
Mag was gone, she repaired to Carrie's room, giving vent
to her opinion as follows: “Carrie,” said she, (she now
dropped the dear, when Mr. Hamilton was not by,) “Carrie,
I shouldn't suppose you'd ever expect to get well, so
long as you stay moped up here all day. You ought to
come down stairs, and stir round more.”
“Oh, I should be so glad if I could,” answered Carrie.
“Could!” repeated Mrs. Hamilton; “you could if
you would. Now, it's my opinion that you complain altogether
too much, and fancy you are a great deal worse
than you really are, when all you want is exercise. A
short walk on the piazza, and a little fresh air, each morning,
would soon cure you.”
“I know fresh air does me good,” said Carrie; “but
walking makes my side ache so hard, and makes me
cough so, that Maggie thinks I'd better not.”
Mag, quoted as authority, exasperated Mrs. Hamilton,
who replied, rather sharply, “Fudge on Mag's old-maidish
whims! I know that any one who eats as much as
you do, can't be so very weak!”
“I don't eat half you send me,” said poor Carrie, beginning
to cry at her mother's unkind remarks; “Willie
most always comes up here and eats with me.”
“For mercy's sake, mother, let the child have what she
wants to eat, for 'tisn't long she'll need it,” said Lenora,
suddenly appearing in the room.
“Lenora, go right down; you are not wanted here,”
said Mrs. Hamilton.
“Neither are you, I fancy,” was Lenora's reply, as she
coolly seated herself on the foot of Carrie's bed, while her
mother continued: “Really, Carrie, you must try and
come down to your meals, for you have no idea how
much it hinders the work, to bring them up here. Polly
isn't good for anything until she has conjured up something
extra for your breakfast, and then they break so
many dishes!”
“I'll try to come down to-morrow,” said Carrie, meekly;
and, as the door bell just then rang, Mrs. Hamilton
departed, leaving her with Lenora, whose first exclamation
was, “If I were in your place, Carrie, I wouldn't eat
anything, and die quick.”
“I don't want to die,” said Carrie; and Lenora, clapping
her hands together, replied, “Why, you poor little
innocent, who supposed you did? Nobody wants to die,
not even I, good as I am; but I should expect to, if I
had the consumption.”
“Lenora, have I got the consumption?” asked Carrie,
who thoughtlessly replied: “To be sure you
have. They say one lung is entirely gone, and the other
nearly so.”
Wearily the sick girl turned upon her side; and, resting
her dimpled cheek upon her hand, she said, softly,
“Go away now, Lenora; I want to be alone.”
Lenora complied, and when Margaret returned from
the village, she found her sister lying in the same position
in which Lenora had left her, with her fair hair falling
over her face, which it hid from view.
“Are you asleep, Carrie?” said Mag; but Carrie made
no answer, and there was something so still and motionless
in her repose, that Mag went up to her, and pushing
back from her face the long silken hair, saw that she had
fainted.
The excitement of her step-mother's visit, added to the
startling news which Lenora had told her, were too much
for her weak nerves, and for a time she remained insensible.
At length, rousing herself, she looked dreamily
around, saying, “Was it a dream, Maggie—all a dream?”
“Was what a dream, love?” said Margaret, supporting
her sister's head upon her bosom.
Suddenly Carrie remembered the whole, but she resolved
not to tell of her step-mother's visit, though she
earnestly desired to know if what Lenora had told her were
true. Raising herself, so that she could see Margaret's
face, she said, “Maggie, is there no hope for me; and do
the physicians say I must die?”
“Why, what do you mean? I never knew that they
said so,” answered Mag; and then with breathless indignation
she listened, while Carrie told her what Lenora
had said. “I'll see that she doesn't get in here again,”
said Margaret. “I know she made more than half of
very much diseased, they have never said that you could
not recover.”
The next morning, greatly to Mag's astonishment, Carrie
insisted upon going down to breakfast.
“Why, you must not do it; you are not able,” said
Mag. But Carrie was determined; and, wrapping herself
in her thick shawl, she slowly descended the stairs,
though the cold air in the long hall made her shiver.
“Carrie, dear, you are better this morning, and there
is quite a rosy flush on your cheek,” said Mrs. Hamilton,
rising to meet her. (Mr. Hamilton, be it remembered,
was present.) But Carrie shrank instinctively from her
step-mother's advances, and took her seat by the side of
her father.
After breakfast, Mag remembered that she had an errand
in the village, and Carrie, who felt too weary to return
immediately to her room, said she would wait below
until her sister returned. Mag had been gone but a
few moments, when Mrs. Hamilton, opening the outer
door, called to Lenora, saying, “Come and take a few
turns on the piazza with Carrie. The air is bracing this
morning, and will do her good.”
Willie, who was present, cried out, “No — Carrie is
sick; she can't walk—Maggie said she couldn't,” and he
grasped his sister's hand to hold her. With a not very
gentle jerk, Mrs. Hamilton pulled him off, while Lenora,
who came bobbing and bounding into the room, took
Carrie's arm, saying, “Oh yes, I'll walk with you; shall
we have a hop, skip, or jump?”
“Don't don't!” said Carrie, holding back; “I can't
walk fast, Lenora,” and actuated by some sudden impulse
of kindness, Lenora conformed her steps to those of the
invalid. Twice they walked up and down the piazza, and
clasping her hand over her side, exclaimed, “No, no; I
can't go again.”
Little Willie, who fancied that his sister was being
hurt, sprang toward Lenora, saying, “Leno, you mustn't
hurt Carrie. Let her go; she's sick.”
And now to the scene of action came Dame Hamilton,
and seizing her young step-son, she tore him away from
Lenora, administering, at the same time, a bit of a motherly
shake. Willie's blood was up, and in return he dealt
her blow, for which she rewarded him by another shake,
and by tying him to the table.
That Lenora was not all bad, was shown by the unselfish
affection she ever manifested for Willie, although her
untimely interference between him and her mother oftentimes
made matters worse. Thus, on the occasion of
which we have been speaking, Mrs. Hamilton had scarcely
left the room ere Lenora released Willie from his confinement,
thereby giving him the impression that his mother
alone was to blame. Fortunately, however, Margaret's
judgment was better, and though she felt justly indignant
at the cruelty practiced upon poor Carrie, she could
not uphold Willie in striking his mother. Calling him to
her room, she talked to him until he was wholly softened,
and offered, of his own accord, to go and say he was sorry,
provided Maggie would accompany him as far as the door
of the sitting-room, where his mother would probably be
found. Accordingly, Mag descended the stairs with him,
and meeting Lenora in the hall, said, “Is she in the sitting-room?”
“Is she in the sitting room?” repeated Lenora, “and
pray who may she be?” then quick as thought she
added, “Oh, yes, I know. She is in there telling HE!”
Lenora was right in her conjecture, for Mrs. Hamilton,
and still more provoked at him for untying himself, as
she supposed he had, was laying before her husband
quite an aggravated case of assault and battery.
In the midst of her argument Willie entered the room,
with tear-stained eyes, and without noticing the presence
of his father, went directly to his mother, and burying
his face in her lap, sobbed out, “Willie is sorry he struck
you, and will never do so again, if you will forgive him.”
In a much gentler tone than she would have assumed had
not her husband been present, Mrs. Hamilton replied, “I
can forgive you for striking me, Willie, but what have you
to say about untying yourself?”
“I did n't do it,” said Willie, “Leno did that.”
“Be careful what you say,” returned Mrs. Hamilton.
“I can't believe Lenora would do so.”
Ere Willie had time to repeat his assertion, Lenora,
who all the time had been standing by the door, appeared,
saying, “you may believe him, for he has never been
whipped to make him lie. I did do it, and I would do it
again.”
“Lenora,” said Mr. Hamilton, rather sternly, “you
should not interfere in that manner. You will spoil the
child.”
It was the first time he had presumed to reprove his
step-daughter, and as there was nothing on earth which
Mrs. Hamilton so much feared as Lenora's tongue, she
dreaded the disclosures which farther remark from her
husband might call forth. So, assuming an air of great
distress, she said, “leave her to me, my dear. She is a
strange girl, as I always told you, and no one can manage
her as well as myself.” Then kissing Willie in token
of forgiveness, she left the room, drawing Lenora after
her and whispering fiercely in her ear, “how can you
way before the father.”
With a mocking laugh, Lenora replied, “Pshaw! I
gave that up the first time I ever saw him, for of course
he thinks me a second edition of Mrs. Carter, minus any
improvements. But, he's mistaken; I'm not half as bad
as I seem. I'm only what you've made me.”
Mrs. Hamilton turned away, thinking that if her daughter
could so easily give up Walter Hamilton, she would
not. She was resolved upon an alliance between him and
Lenora. And who ever knew her to fail in what she
undertook!
She had wrung from her husband the confession, that
“he believed there was a sort of childish affection between
Walter and Kate Kirby, though 'twas doubtful
whether it ever amounted to anything.” She had also
learned that he was rather averse to the match, and
though Lenora had not yet been named as a substitute
for Kate, she strove, in many ways, to impress her husband
with a sense of her daughter's superior abilities, at
the same time taking pains to mortify Margaret by setting
Lenora above her.
For this, however, Margaret cared but little, and it
was only when her mother ill-treated Willie, which she
frequently did, that her spirit was fully roused.
At Mrs. Hamilton's first marriage she had been presented
with a handsome glass pitcher, which she of course
greatly prized. One day it stood upon the stand in her
room, where Willie was also playing with some spools,
which Lenora had found and arranged for him. Malta,
the pet kitten, was amusing herself by running after the
spools, and when at last Willie, becoming tired, laid them
on the stand, she sprang toward them, upsetting the
pitcher, which was broken in a dozen pieces. On hearing
where the sight of her favorite pitcher in fragments
greatly enraged her. Thinking, of course, that Willie had
done it, she rudely seized him by the arm, administered
a cuff or so, and then dragged him toward the china
closet.
As soon as Willie could regain his breath, he screamed,
“Oh, ma, don't shut me up; I'll be good; I didn't do it,
certain true; kittie knocked it off.”
“None of your lies,” said Mrs. Hamilton.” It's likely
kittie knocked it off!”
Lenora, who had seen the whole, and knew that what
Willie said was true, was about coming to the rescue,
when looking up, she saw Margaret, with dilated nostrils
and eyes flashing fire, watching the proceedings of her
step-mother.
“He's safe,” thought Lenora; “I'll let Mag fire the first
gun, and then I'll bring up the rear.”
Margaret had never known Willie to tell a lie, and had
no reason for thinking he had done so in this instance.
Besides, the blows her mother gave him exasperated her,
and she stepped forward, just as Mrs. Hamilton was about
pushing him into the closet. So engrossed was that lady
that she heard not Margaret's approach, until a firm hand
was laid upon her shoulder, while Willie was violently
wrested from her grasp, and ere she could recover from
her astonishment, she herself was pushed into the closet,
the door of which was closed and locked against her.
“Bravo, Margaret Hamilton,” cried Lenora, “I'm with
you now, if I never was before. It serves her right, for
Willie told the truth. I was sitting by and saw it all.
Keep her in there an hour, will you? It will pay her for
the many times she has shut me up for nothing.”
Mrs. Hamilton stamped and pushed against the door,
while Lenora danced and sung at the top of her voice,
And seized little Will by the hair;
But when in the closet she'd stow him away,
She herself was pushed headlong in there.”
At length the bolt, yielding to the continued pressure
of Mrs. Hamilton's body, broke, and out came the termagant,
foaming with rage. She dared not molest Margaret,
of whose physical powers she had just received such mortifying
proof, so she aimed a box at the ears of Lenora.
But the lithe little thing dodged it, and with one bound
cleared the table which sat in the center of the room,
landing safely on the other side; and then, shaking her
short, black curls at her mother, she said, “You didn't
come it, that time, my darling.”
Mr. Hamilton, who chanced to be absent for a few
days, was, on his return, regaled with an exaggerated
account of the proceeding, his wife ending her discourse
by saying —“If you don't do something with your upstart
daughter, I'll leave the house; yes, I will.”
Mr. Hamilton was cowardly. He was afraid of his
wife, and he was afraid of Mag. So he tried to compromise
the matter, by promising the one that he surely
would see to it, and by asking the other if she were not
ashamed. But old Polly didn't let the matter pass so
easily. She was greatly shocked at having “such shameful
carryin's on in a decent man's house.”
“'Clare for't,” said she, “I'll give marster a piece of
Polly Pepper's mind the fust time I get a lick at him.”
In the course of a few days Mr. Hamilton had occasion
to go for something into Aunt Polly's dominions. The
old lady was ready for him. “Mr. Hampleton,” said she,
“I've been waitin' to see you this long spell.”
“To see me, Polly?” said he; “what do you want?”
“What I wants is this,” answered Polly, dropping into
a chair. “I want to know what this house is a comin' to,
with such bedivilment in it as there's been since madam
came here with that little black-headed, ugly-favored, ill-begotten,
Satan-possessed, shoulder-unj'inted young-one
of her'n. It's been nothin' but a rowdedow the whole
time, and you hain't grit enough to stop it. Madam
boxes Willie, and undertakes to shet him up for a lie he
never told; Miss Margaret interferes jest as she or'to, takes
Willie away, and shets up madam; while that ill-marnered
Lenora jumps and screeches loud enough to wake the
dead. Madam busts the door down, and pitches into the
varmint, who jumps spang over a four foot table, which
Lord knows I never could have done in my spryest
days.”
“But how can I help all this?” asked Mr. Hamilton.
“Help it?” returned Polly, “You needn't have got
into the fire in the fust place. I hain't lived fifty odd
year for nothin', and though I hain't no larnin', I know
too much to heave myself away on the fust nussin' woman
that comes along.”
“Stop, Polly; you must not speak so of Mrs Hamilton,”
said Mr. Hamilton; while Polly continued: “And
I wouldn't nuther, if she could hold a candle to the t'other
one; but she can't. You'd no business to marry a second
time, even if you didn't marry a nuss; neither has any
man, who's got growd up gals, and a faithful critter like
Polly in the kitchen. Step-mothers don't often do well;
particularly them as is sot up by marryin'.”
Here Mr. Hamilton, who did not like to hear so much
truth, left the kitchen, while Aunt Polly said to herself,
“I've gin it to him good, this time.”
Lenora, who always happened to be near when she was
her mother. Accordingly, that very afternoon word
came to the kitchen that Mrs. Hamilton wished to see
Polly.
“Reckon she'll find this child ain't afeard on her,” said
Polly, as she wiped the flour from her face and repaired
to Mrs. Hamilton's room.
“Polly,” began that lady, with a very grave face, “Lenora
tells me that you have been talking very disrespectfully
to Mr. Hamilton.”
“In the name of the Lord, can't he fight his own battles?”
interrupted Polly. “I only tried to show him
that he was henpecked, and he is.”
“It isn't of him alone I would speak,” resumed Mrs.
Hamilton, with stately gravity; “you spoke insultingly
of me, and as I make it a practice never to keep a servant
after they get insolent, I have —”
“For the dear Lord's sake,” again interrupted Polly,
“I 'spect we's the fust servants you ever had.”
“Good!” said a voice from some quarter, and Mrs.
Hamilton continued: “I have sent for you to give you
twenty-four hours' warning to leave this house.”
“I shan't budge an inch until marster says so,” said
Polly. “Wonder who's the best title deed here? Warn't
I here long afore you come a nussin' t'other one?”
And Polly went back to the kitchen, secretly fearing
that Mr. Hamilton, who she knew was wholly ruled by
his wife, would say that she must go. And he did say so,
though much against his will. Lenora ran with the decision
to Aunt Polly, causing her to drop a loaf of new
bread. But the old negress chased her from the cellar
with the oven broom, and then stealing by a back stair-case
to Margaret's room, laid the case before her, acknowledging
that she was sorry, and asking her young
head of the stairs, and calling to her father, requested
him to come for a moment to her room. This he was more
ready to do, as he had no suspicion why he was sent for,
but on seeing old Polly, he half resolved to turn back.
Margaret, however, led him into the room, and then entreated
him not to send away one who had served him so
long, and so faithfully.
Polly, too, joined in with her tears and prayers, saying,
“She was an old black fool any way, and let her tongue
get the better on her, though she didn't mean to say more
than was true, and reckoned she hadn't.”
In his heart Mr. Hamilton wished to revoke what he
had said, but dread of the explosive storm which he knew
would surely follow, made him irresolute, until Carrie
said, “Father, the first person of whom I have any definite
recollection is Aunt Polly, and I shall be so lonesome if
she goes away. For my sake let her stay, at least until I
am dead.”
This decided the matter. “She shall stay,” said Mr.
Hamilton, and Aunt Polly, highly elated, returned to the
kitchen with the news. Lenora, who seemed to be everywhere
at once, overheard it, and, bent on mischief, ran
with it to her mother. In the meantime, Mr. Hamilton
wished, yet dreaded, to go down, and finally, mentally
cursing himself for his weakness, asked Margaret to accompany
him. She was about to comply with his request,
when Mrs. Hamilton came up the stairs, furious at her
husband, whom she called “a craven coward, led by the
nose by all who chose to lead him.” Wishing to shut out
her noise, Mag closed and bolted the door, and in the
hall the modern Xantippe expended her wrath against
her husband and his offspring, while poor Mr. Hamilton
laid his face in Carrie's lap and wept. Margaret was trying
step-mother, when Lenora was heard to exclaim, “shall I
pitch her over the stairs, Mag? I will if you say so.”
Immediately Mrs. Hamilton's anger took another channel,
and turning upon her daughter, she said, “What are
you here for, you prating parrot! Didn't you tell me
what Aunt Polly said, and haven't you acted in the capacity
of reporter ever since?”
“To be sure I did,” said Lenora, poising herself on one
foot, and whirling around in circles; “but if you thought
I did it because I blamed Aunt Polly, you are mistaken.”
“What did you do it for, then?” said Mrs. Hamilton;
and Lenora, giving the finishing touch to her circles by
dropping upon the floor, answered, “I like to live in a
hurricane — so I told you what I did. Now, if you think
it will add at all to the excitement of the present occasion,
I'll get an ax for you to split the door down.”
“Oh, don't, Lenora, “screamed Carrie, from within, to
which Lenora responded, “Poor little simple chick bird,
I wouldn't harm a hair of your soft head for anything.
But there is a man in there, or one who passes for a man,
that I think would look far more respectable if he'd come
out and face the tornado. She's easy to manage when
you know how. At least, Mag and I find her so.”
Here Mr. Hamilton, ashamed of himself and emboldened,
perhaps, by Lenora's words, slipped back the bolt of the
door, and walking out, confronted his wife.
“Shall I order pistols and coffee for two?” asked Lenora,
swinging herself entirely over the bannister, and
dropping like a squirrel on the stair below.
“Is Polly going to stay in this house?” asked Mrs.
Hamilton.
“She is,” was the reply.
“Then I leave to-night,” said Mrs. Hamilton.
“Very well, you can go,” returned the husband, growing
stronger in himself each moment.
Mrs. Hamilton turned away to her own room, where
she remained until supper time, when Lenora asked “if
she had got her chest packed, and where they should
direct their letters!” Neither Margaret nor her father
could refrain from laughter. Mrs. Hamilton, too, who
had no notion of leaving the comfortable homestead, and
who thought this as good a time to veer round as any
she would have, also joined in the laugh, saying, “What
a child you are, Lenora!”
Gradually the state of affairs at the homestead was
noised throughout the village, and numerous were the little
tea parties where none dared speak above a whisper,
to tell what they had heard, and where each and every
one were bound to the most profound secrecy, for fear
the reports might not be true. At length, however, the
story of the china closet got out, causing Sally Martin to
spend one whole day in retailing the gossip from door to
door. Many, too, suddenly remembered certain suspicious
things which they had seen in Mrs. Hamilton, who
was unanimously voted to be a bad woman, and who, of
course, began to be slighted.
The result of this was, to increase the sourness of her
disposition; and life at the homestead would have been
one continuous scene of turmoil, had not Margaret wisely
concluded to treat whatever her step-mother did with silent
contempt. Lenora, too, always seemed ready to fill
up all vacant niches, until even Mag acknowledged that
the mother would be unendurable without the daughter.
9. CHAPTER IX.
LENORA AND CARRIE.
Ever since the day on which Lenora had startled Carrie
by informing her of her danger, she had been carefully
kept from the room, or allowed only to enter it when
Margaret was present. One afternoon, however, early in
February, Mag had occasion to go to the village. Lenora,
who saw her depart, hastily gathered up her work,
and repaired to Carrie's room, saying, as she entered it,
“Now, Carrie, we'll have a good time; Mag has gone to
see old deaf Peggy, who asks a thousand questions, and
will keep her at least two hours, and I am going to entertain
you to the best of my ability.”
Carrie's cheek flushed, for she felt some misgivings with
regard to the nature of Lenora's entertainment; but she
knew there was no help for it, so she tried to smile, and
said, “I am willing you should stay, Lenora, but you
must n't talk bad things to me, for I can't bear it.”
“Bad things!” repeated Lenora, “Who ever heard
me talk bad things? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Carrie, “that you must not talk about
your mother, as you sometimes do. It is wicked.”
“Why, you dear little thing,” answered Lenora, “don't
you know that what would be wicked for you, isn't wicked
for me?”
“No, I do not know so,” answered Carrie; “but I
know I wouldn't talk about my mother as you do about
yours, for anything.”
“Bless your heart,” said Lenora, “have n't you sense
enough to see that there is a great difference between
Mrs. Hamilton 1st, and Mrs. Hamilton 2d? Now, I'm
Hamilton 1st, instead of Widow Carter's young-one, why,
I should have been as good as you;—no, not as good as
you, for you don't know enough to be bad,—but as good
as Mag, who, in my opinion, has the right kind of goodness,
for all I used to hate her so.”
“Hate Margaret!” said Carrie, opening her eyes to
their utmost extent. “What did you hate Margaret
for?”
“Because I didn't know her, I suppose,” returned Lenora;
“for now I like her well enough—not quite as well
as I do you, perhaps; and yet, when I see you bear
mother's abuse so meekly, I positively hate you for a minute,
and ache to box your ears; but when Mag squares
up to her, shuts her in the china closet, and all that, I
want to put my arms right round her neck.”
“Why, don't you like your mother?” asked Carrie;
and Lenora replied: “Of course I do; but I know what
she is, and I know she is n't what she sometimes seems.
Why, she'd be anything to suit the circumstances. She
wanted your father, and she assumed the character most
likely to secure him; for, between you and me, he is n't
very smart.”
“What did she marry him for, then?” asked Carrie.
“Marry him! I hope you don't for a moment suppose
she married him!”
“Why, Lenora, ain't they married? I thought they
were. Oh, dreadful!” and Carrie started to her feet,
while the perspiration stood thickly on her forehead.
Lenora screamed with delight, saying, “You certainly
have the softest brain I ever saw. Of course the minister
went through with the ceremony; but it was not your
father that mother wanted; it was his house—his money
—his horses—his servants, and his name. Now, may be,
here out of kindness to the motherless children; but I
tell you, she would be better satisfied if neither of you
had ever been born. I suppose it is wicked in me to say
so, but I think she makes me worse than I would otherwise
be; for I am not naturally so bad, and I like people
much better than I pretend to. Any way, I like you,
and love little Willie, and always have, since the first time
I saw him. Your mother lay in her coffin, and Willie
stood by her, caressing her cold cheek, and saying,
“Wake up, mamma, it's Willie; don't you know Willie?”
I took him in my arms, and vowed to love and shield him
from the coming evil; for I knew then, as well as I do
now, that what has happened would happen. Mag wasn't
there; she didn't see me. If he had, she might have
liked me better; now she thinks there is no good in
me; and if, when you die, I should feel like shedding
tears, and perhaps I shall, it would be just like her to
wonder `what business I had to cry — it was none of my
funeral!”'
“You do wrong to talk so, Lenora,” said Carrie;
“but tell me, did you never have any one to love except
Willie?”
“Yes,” said Lenora; “when I was a child, a little, innocent
child, I had a grandmother—my father's mother—
who taught me to pray, and told me of God.”
“Where is she now?” asked Carrie.
“In heaven,” was the answer. “I know she is there,
because when she died, there was the same look on her
face that there was on your mother's—the same that there
will be on yours, when you are dead.”
“Never mind,” gasped Carrie, who did not care to be
so frequently reminded of her mortality, while Lenora
continued: “Perhaps you don't know that my father was,
dearly, and cried when he went away. We lived with
grandmother, and sometimes now, in my dreams, I am
a child again, kneeling by grandma's side, in our dear old
eastern home, where the sunshine fell so warmly, where
the summer birds sang in the old maple trees, and where
the long shadows, which I called spirits, came and went
over the bright green meadows. But there was a sadder
day; a narrow coffin, a black hearse, and a tolling bell,
which always wakes me from my sleep, and I find the
dream all gone, and nothing left of the little child but the
wicked Lenora Carter.”
Here the dark girl buried her face in her hands and
wept, while Carrie gently smoothed her tangled curls.
After a while, as if ashamed of her emotion, Lenora dried
her tears, and Carrie said, “Tell me more of your early
life. I like you when you act as you do now.”
“There is nothing more to tell but wickedness,” answered
Lenora. “Grandma died, and I had no one to
teach me what was right. About a year after her death,
mother wanted to get a divorce from father; and one
day she told me that a lawyer was coming to inquire
about my father's treatment of her. `Perhaps,' said she,
`he will ask if you ever saw him strike me, and you must
say that you have, a great many times.' `But I never
did,' said I; and then she insisted upon my telling that
falsehood, and I refused, until she whipped me, and made
me promise to say whatever she wished me to. In this
way I was trained to be what I am. Nobody loves me;
nobody ever can love me; and sometimes when Mag
speaks so kindly to you, and looks so affectionately upon
you, I think, what would I not give for some one to love
me; and then I go away to cry, and wish I had never
been born.”
Here Mrs. Hamilton called to her daughter, and, gathering
up her work, Lenora left the room just as Margaret
entered it, on her return from the village.
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,
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,
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
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,
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
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
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,
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.
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,
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
the crumpled piece of paper on which Carrie had written
to her father.
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
12. CHAPTER XII.
“CARRYING OUT DEAR MR. HAMILTON'S PLANS.”
One morning about ten days after the departure of
Walter, the good people of Glenwood were greatly surprised
at the unusual confusion which seemed to pervade
out, carpets taken up, and where so lately physicians,
clergymen and death had officiated, were now seen carpenters,
masons and other workmen. Many were the
surmises as to the cause of all this; and one old lady, more
curious than the rest, determined upon a friendly call, to
ascertain, if possible, what was going on.
She found Mrs. Hamilton with her sleeves rolled up,
and her hair tucked under a black cap, consulting with a
carpenter about enlarging her bedroom and adding to it
a bathing room. Being received but coldly by the mistress
of the house, she descended to the basement, where
she was told by Aunt Polly that “the blinds were going
to be repainted, an addition built, the house turned wrong
side out, and Cain raised generally.”
“It's a burning shame,” said Aunt Polly, warmed up
by her subject and the hot oven into which she was thrusting
loaves of bread and pies. “It's a burning shame,—a
tearin' down and a goin' on this way, and marster not
cold in his grave. Miss Lenora, with all her badness, says
it's disgraceful, but he might ha' know'd it. I did. I
know'd it the fust time she came here a nussin'. I don't
see what got into him to have her. Polly Pepper, without
any larnin', never would ha' done such a thing,” continued
she, as the door closed upon her visitor, who was
anxious to carry the gossip back to the village.
It was even as Aunt Polly had said. Mrs. Hamilton, who
possessed a strong propensity for pulling down and building
up, and who would have made an excellent carpenter,
had long had an earnest desire for improving the homestead;
and now that there was no one to prevent her, she
went to work with a right good will, saying to Lenora,
who remonstrated with her upon the impropriety of her
conduct, that “she was merely carrying out dear Mr.
before his death.
“Dear Mr. Hamilton!” repeated Lenora, “very dear
has he become to you, all at once. I think if you had always
manifested a little more affection for him and his,
they might not have been where they now are.”
“Seems to me you take a different text from what you
did some months ago,” said Mrs. Hamilton; “but perhaps
you don't remember the time?”
“I remember it well,” answered Lenora, “and quite
likely, with your training, I should do the same again.
We were poor, and I wished for a more elegant home. I
fancied that Margaret Hamilton was proud and had slighted
me, and I longed for revenge; but when I knew her,
I liked her better, and when I saw that she was not to be
trampled down by you or me, my hatred of her turned to
admiration. The silly man, who has paid the penalty of
his weakness, I always despised; but when I saw how fast
the gray hairs thickened on his head, and how care-worn
and bowed down he grew, I pitied him, for I knew that
his heart was breaking. Willie I truly, unselfishly loved;
and I am charitable enough to think that even you loved
him, but it was through your neglect that he died, and
for his death you will answer. Carrie was gentle and
trusting, but weak, like her father. I do not think you
killed her, for she was dying when we came here, but you
put the crowning act of wickedness to your life, when you
compelled a man, shattered in body and intellect, to write
a will which disinherited his only son; but on that point
you are baffled. To be sure, you've got the homestead,
and for decency's sake I think I'd wait awhile longer, ere
I commenced tearing down and building up.”
Lenora's words had no effect, whatever, upon her mother,
who still kept on with her plans, treating with silent contempt
that they would attend to their own business, just as she
was attending to hers! Day after day the work went on.
Scaffoldings were raised—paper and plastering torn off—
boards were seasoning in the sun — shingles lying upon
the ground — ladders raised against the wall; and all this
while the two new graves showed not a single blade of
grass, and the earth upon them looked black and fresh as
it did when first it was placed there.
When, at last, the blinds were hung, the house cleaned,
and the carpets nailed down, Mrs. Hamilton, who had designed
doing it all the time, called together the servants,
whom she had always disliked on account of their preference
for Margaret, and told them to look for new places,
as their services were no longer needed there.
“You can make out your bills,” said she, at the same
time intimating that they hadn't one of them more than
earned their board, if indeed they had that! Polly Pepper
wasn't of a material to stand coolly by and hear such
language from one whom she considered far beneath her.
“Hadn't she as good a right there as anybody? Yes, indeed,
she had! Wasn't she there a full thirty year before
any of your low-lived trash came round a nussin?”
“Polly,” interposed Mrs. Hamilton, “leave the room,
instantly, you ungrateful thing'!”
“Ungrateful for what?” returned old Polly. “Haven't
I worked and slaved like an old nigger, as I am? and now
you call me ungrateful, and say I hain't half arnt my bread.
I'll sue you for slander, yes I will;” and the enraged Polly
left the room, muttering to herself, “half arnt my board!
Indeed! I'll bet I've made a hundred thousan' pies, to
say nothin' of the puddings. I not arn my board!”
When once again safe in what for so many years had
been her own peculiar province, she sat down to meditate.
my curse on the madam who sends me away!”
In the midst of her reverie, Lenora entered the kitchen,
and to her the old lady detailed her grievances, ending
with, “'Pears like she don't know nothin' at all about
etiquette, nor nothin' else.”
“Etiquette!” repeated Lenora. “You are mistaken,
Polly; mother would sit on a point of etiquette till she
wore the back breadth of her dress out. But it isn't that
which she lacks — it's decency. But, Polly,” said she,
changing the subject, “where do you intend to go, and
how?”
“To my brother Sam's,” said Polly. “He lives three
miles in the country, and I've sent Robin to the village for
a horse and wagon to carry my things.”
Here Mrs. Hamilton entered the kitchen, followed by a
strapping Irish girl, nearly six feet in height. Her hair,
flaming red, was twisted round a huge back comb; her
faded calico dress came far above her ancles; her brawny
arms were folded one over the other; and there was in
her appearance something altogether disagreeable and defiant.
Mrs. Hamilton introduced her as Ruth, her new
cook, saying she hoped she would know enough to keep
her place better than her predecessor had done.
Aunt Polly surveyed her rival from head to foot, and
then glancing aside to Lenora, muttered, “Low-lived, depend
on't.”
Robin now drove up with the wagon, and Mrs. Hamilton
and Lenora left the room, while Polly went to prepare
herself for her ride. Her sleeping apartment was in
the basement and communicated with the kitchen. This
was observed by the new cook, who had a strong dislike
of negroes, and who feared that she might be expected to
occupy the same bed.
“An' faith,” said she, “is it where the like of ye have
burrowed that I am to turn in?”
“I don't understand no such low-flung stuff,” answered
Polly, “but if you mean are you to have this bedroom, I
suppose you are.”
Here Polly had occasion to go up stairs for something,
and on her return, she found that Ruth, during her absence,
had set fire to a large linen rag, which she held on
a shovel and was carrying about the bedroom, as if to
purify it from every atom of negro atmosphere which
might remain. Polly was quick-wittted, and instantly
comprehending the truth, she struck the shovel from the
hands of Ruth, exclaiming, “You spalpeen, is it because
my skin ain't a dingy yaller and all freckled like yourn?
Lord, look at your carrot-topped cocoanut, and then tell
me if wool ain't a heap the most genteel.”
In a moment a portion of the boasted wool was lying
on the floor, or being shaken from the thick, red fingers
of the cook, while Irish blood was flowing freely from
the nose, which Polly, in her vengeful wrath, had wrung.
Further hostilities were prevented by Robin, who screamed
that he couldn't wait any longer, and shaking her fist
fiercely at the red-head, Polly departed.
That day Lucy and Rachel also left, and their places
were supplied by two raw hands, one of whom, before the
close of the second day, tumbled up stairs with the large
soup tureen, breaking it in fragments and scalding the foot
of Mrs. Hamilton, who was in the rear, and who, having
waited an hour for dinner, had descended to the kitchen
to know why it was not forthcoming, saying that Polly
had never been so behind the time.
The other one, on being asked if she understood chamber
work, had replied, “Indade, and it's been my business
all my life.” She was accordingly sent to make the
of the latter, she had thrown it from the window,
deluging the head and shoulders of her mistress, who was
bending down to examine a rose-bush which had been recently
set out. Lenora was in ecstasies, and when at
noon her mother received a sprinkling of red-hot soup, she
gravely asked her “which she relished most, cold or warm
baths!”
13. CHAPTER XIII.
RETRIBUTION.
Two years have passed away, and again we open the
scene at the homestead, which had not proved an altogether
pleasant home to Mrs. Hamilton. There was
around her everything to make her happy, but she was
far from being so. One by one her servants, with whom
she was very unpopular, had left her, until there now remained
but one. The villagers, too, shunned her, and she
was wholly dependent for society upon Lenora, who, as
usual, provoked and tormented her.
One day, Hester, the servant, came up from the basement,
saying there was a poor old man below, who asked
for money.
“Send him away; I've nothing for him,” said Mrs.
Hamilton, whose avaricious hand, larger far than her
heart, grasped at and retained everything.
“But, if you please, ma'am, he seems very poor,” said
Hester.
“Let him go to work, then. 'Twon't hurt him more
than 't will me,” was the reply.
Lenora, whose eyes and ears were always open, no
sooner heard that there was a beggar in the kitchen, than
she ran down to see him. He was a miserable looking
object, and still there was something in his appearance
which denoted him to be above the common order of beggars.
His eyes were large and intensely black, and his
hair, short, thick, and curly, reminded Lenora of her own.
The moment she appeared, a peculiar expression passed
for a moment over his face, and he half started up; then
resuming his seat, he fixed his glittering eyes upon the
young lady, and seemed watching her closely.
At last she began questioning him, but his answers were
so unsatisfactory that she gave it up, and, thinking it the
easiest way to be rid of him, she took from her pocket a
shilling and handed it to him, saying, “It's all I can give
you, unless it is a dinner. Are you hungry?”
Hester, who had returned to the kitchen, was busy in
a distant part of the room, and she did not notice the
paleness which overspread Lenora's face, at the words
which the beggar uttered, when she presented the money
to him. She caught, however, the low murmur of their
voices, as they spoke together for a moment, and as Lenora
accompanied him to the door, she distinctly heard
the words, “In the garden.”
“And may be that's some of your kin; you look like
him,” said she to Lenora, after the stranger was gone.
“That's my business, not yours,” answered Lenora, as
she left the kitchen and repaired to her mother's room.
“Lenora, what ails you?” said Mrs Hamilton to her
daughter at the tea-table, that night, when, after putting
salt in one cup of ten, and upsetting a second, she commenced
spreading her biscuit with cheese instead of butter.
“What ails you? What are you thinking about?
than the dead.”
Lenora made no direct reply to this, but soon after she
said, “Mother, how long has father been dead,—my own
father I mean?”
“Two or three years, I don't exactly know which,”
returned her mother, and Lenora continued: “How did
he look? I hardly remember him.”
“You have asked me that fifty times,” answered her
mother, “and fifty times I have told you that he looked
like you, only worse, if possible.”
“Let me see, where did you say he died?” said
Lenora.
“In New Orleans, with yellow fever, or black measles,
or small pox, or something,” Mrs. Hamilton replied; “but,
mercy's sake! can't you choose a better subject to talk
about? What made you think of him? He's been haunting
me all day, and I feel kind of nervous and want to
look over my shoulder whenever I am alone.”
Lenora made no further remark until after tea, when
she announced her intention of going to the village.
“Come back early, for I don't feel like staying alone,”
said her mother.
The sun had set when Lenora left the village, and by
the time she reached home, it was wholly dark. As she
entered the garden, the outline of a figure, sitting on a
bench at its farther extremity, made her stop for a moment,
but thinking to herself, “I expected it, and why
should I be afraid?” she walked on fearlessly, until the
person, roused by the sound of her footsteps, started up,
and turning toward her, said, half aloud, “Lenora, is it
you?”
Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the
beggar was clasped in hers, while the other rested upon
you do not hate me?”
“Hate you, father?” she answered, “never, never.”
“But,” he continued, “has not she,—my,—no, not
my wife,—thank heaven not my wife now,—but your
mother, has not she taught you to despise and hate me?”
“No,” answered Lenora, bitterly. “She has taught me
enough of evil, but my memories of you were too sweet,
too pleasant, for me to despise you, though I do not think
you always did right, more than mother.”
The stranger groaned, and murmured, “It's true, all
true;” while Lenora continued: “But where have you
been all these years, and how came we to hear of your
death?”
“I have been in St. Louis most of the time, and the
report of my death resulted from the fact that a man bearing
my name, and who was also from Connecticut, died
of yellow fever in New Orleans about two years and a
half ago. A friend of mine, observing a notice of his
death, and supposing it to refer to me, forwarded the paper
to your mother, who, though then free from me, undoubtedly
felt glad, for she never loved me, but married
me because she thought I had money.”
“But how have you lived?” asked Lenora.
“Lived!” he repeated, “I have not lived. I have
merely existed. Gambling and drinking, drinking and
gambling, have been the business of my life, and have reduced
me to the miserable wretch whom you see.”
“Oh, father, father,” cried Lenora, “reform. It is not
too late, and you can yet be saved. Do it for my sake,
for, in spite of all your faults, I love you, and you are my
father.”
The first words of affection which had greeted his ear
for many long years made the wretched man weep, as
will keep my vow. During one of my drunken revels in
St. Louis, a dream of home came over me, and when I
became sober, I started for Connecticut. There I heard
where and what your mother was. I had no wish ever
to meet her again, for though I greatly erred in my conduct
toward her, I think she was always the most to
blame. You I remembered with love, and I longed to
see you once more, to hear again the word `father,' and
know that I was not forgotten. I came as far as the city,
and there fell into temptation. For the last two months
I have been there, gambling and drinking, until I lost all
even the clothes which I wore, and was compelled to assume
these rags. I am now without home or money, and
have no place to lay my head.”
“I can give you money,” said Lenora. “Meet me
here to-morrow night, and you shall have all you want.
But what do you purpose doing? Where will you
stay?”
“In the village, for the sake of being near you,” said
he, at the same time bidding his daughter return to the
house, as the night air was damp and chilly.
Within a week from that time, a middle-aged man,
calling himself John Robinson, appeared in the village,
hiring himself out as a porter at one of the hotels. There
was a very striking resemblance between him and Lenora
Carter, which was noticed by the villagers, and mentioned
to Mrs. Hamilton, who, however, could never
obtain a full view of the stranger's face, for without
any apparent design, he always avoided meeting her.
He had not been long in town, before it was whispered
about that between him and Lenora Carter a strange
intimacy existed, and rumors soon reached Mrs. Hamilton
that her daughter was in the habit of frequently
once, when watched, she had been seen to put her arms
around his neck. Highly indignant, Mrs. Hamilton questioned
Lenora on the subject, and was astonished beyond
measure when she replied, “It is all true. I have met
Mr. Robinson often, and I have put my arms around his
neck, and shall probably do it again.”
“Oh, my child, my child,” groaned Mrs. Hamilton,
really distressed at her daughter's conduct. “How can
you do so? You will bring my gray hairs with sorrow
to the grave.”
“Not if you pull out as many of them as you now do,
and use Twiggs' Preparation besides,” said Lenora.
Mrs. Hamilton did not answer, but covering her face
with her hands, wept, really wept, thinking for the first
time, perhaps, that as she had sowed so was she reaping.
For some time past, her health had been failing, and as
the summer days grew warmer and more oppressive, she
felt a degree of lassitude and physical weakness which she
had never before experienced; and one day unable
longer to sit up, she took her bed, where she lay for many
days.
Now that her mother was really sick, Lenora seemed
suddenly changed, and with unwearied care watched over
her as kindly and faithfully as if no words, save those of
affection, had ever passed between them. Warmer and
more sultry grew the days, and more fiercely raged the
fever in Mrs. Hamilton's veins, until at last the crisis was
reached and passed, and she was in a fair way for recovery,
when she was attacked by chills, which again reduced
her to a state of helplessness. One day, about this
time, a ragged little boy, whose business seemed to be
lounging around the hotel, brought to Lenora a soiled
and crumpled note, on which was traced with an unsteady
come to me, quick; come.”
Lenora was in a state of great perplexity. Her mother,
when awake, needed all her care; and as she seldom slept
during the day, there seemed but little chance of getting
away. The night before, however, she had been unusually
restless and wakeful, and about noon she seemed
drowsy, and finally fell into a deep sleep.
“Now is my time,” thought Lenora; and calling Hester,
she bade her watch by her mother until she returned,
saying, “If she wakes, tell her I have gone to the village,
and will soon be back.”
Hester promised compliance, and was for a time faithful
to her trust; but suddenly recollecting something
which she wished to tell the girl who lived at the next
neighbor's, she stole away, leaving her mistress alone.
For five minutes Mrs. Hamilton slept on, and then with a
start awoke from a troubled dream, in which she had
seemed dying of thirst, while little Willie, standing by a
hogshead of water, refused her a drop. A part of her
dream was true, for she was suffering from the most intolerable
thirst, and called loudly for Lenora; but Lenora
was not there. Hester next was called, but she, too,
was gone. Then, seizing the bell which stood upon the
table, she rung it with all her force, and still there came
no one to her relief.
Again Willie stood by her, offering her a goblet overflowing
with water; but when she attempted to take it,
Willie changed into Lenora, who laughed mockingly at
her distress, telling her there was water in the well and
ice on the curb-stone. Once more the phantom faded
away, and the old porter was there, wading through a
limpid stream, and offering her to drink a cup of molten
lead.
“Merciful heaven!” shrieked the sick woman, as she
writhed from side to side on her bed, which seemed
changed to burning coals; “will no one bring me water,
water, water!”
An interval of calmness succeeded, during which she
revolved in her mind the possibility of going herself to
the kitchen, where she knew the water-pail was standing.
No sooner had she decided upon this, than the room appeared
full of little demons, who laughed, and chattered,
and shouted in her ears, “Go—do it! Willie did, when
the night was dark and chilly; but now it is warm—nice
and warm—try it, do!”
Tremblingly Mrs. Hamilton stepped upon the floor,
and finding herself too weak to walk, crouched down,
and crept slowly down the stairs to the kitchen door,
where she stopped to rest. Across the room by the window
stood the pail, and as her eye fell upon it, the mirth
of the little winged demons appeared, in her disordered
fancy, to increase; and when the spot was reached, the
tumbler seized and thrust into the pail, they darted hither
and thither, shouting gleefully, “Lower, lower down;
just as Willie did. You'll find it; oh, you'll find it!”
With a bitter cry, Mrs. Hamilton dashed the tumbler
upon the floor, for the bucket was empty!
“Willie, Willie, you are avenged,” she said; but the
goblins answered, “Not yet; no, not yet.”
There was no pump in the well, and Mrs. Hamilton
knew she had not strength to raise the bucket by means
of the windlass. Her exertions had increased her thirst
tenfold, and now, for one cup of cooling water she would
have given all her possessions. Across the yard, at the
distance of twenty rods, there was a gushing spring, and
thither in her despair she determined to go. Accordingly,
she went forth into the fierce noontide blaze, and, with
what! was it a film upon her eyes? Had blindness come
upon her, or was the spring really dried up by the fervid
summer heat?
“Willie's avenged! Willie's avenged!” yelled the
imps, as the wretched woman fainted and fell backward
upon the bank, where she lay with her white, thin face
upturned, and blistering beneath the August sun!
Along the dusty highway came a handsome traveling
carriage, in which, besides the driver, were seated two
individuals, the one a young and elegantly dressed lady,
and the other a gentleman, who appeared to be on the
most intimate terms with his companion; for whenever
he would direct her attention to any passing object, he
laid his hand on hers, frequently retaining it, and calling
her “Maggie.”
The carriage was nearly opposite the homestead, when
the lady exclaimed, “Oh, Richard, I must stop at my old
home, once more. Only see how beautiful it is looking!”
In a moment the carriage was standing before the gate,
and the gentleman, who was Margaret Hamilton's husband—a
Mr. Elwyn, from the city — assisted his young
wife to alight, and then followed her to the house. No
answer was given to their loud ring, and as the doors and
windows were all open, Margaret proposed that they
should enter. They did so; and, going first into Mrs.
Hamilton's sick-room, the sight of the little table full of
vials, and the tumbled, empty bed, excited their wonder
and curiosity, and induced them to go on. At last, descending
to the kitchen, they saw the fragments of the
tumbler lying upon the floor.
“Strange isn't it?” said Margaret to her husband, who
was standing in the outer door, and who had at that moment
discovered Mrs. Hamilton lying near the spring.
Instantly they were at her side, and Margaret involuntarily
shuddered as she recognized her step-mother, and
guessed why she was there. Taking her in his arms, Mr.
Elwyn bore her back to the house, and Margaret, filling
a pitcher with water, bathed her face, moistened her lips,
and applied other restoratives, until she revived enough
to say, “More water, Willie. Give me more water!”
Eagerly she drained the goblet which Margaret held to
her lips, and was about drinking the second, when her
eyes for the first time sought Margaret's face. With a
cry between a groan and a scream, she lay back upon her
pillows, saying, “Margaret Hamilton, how came you
here? What have you to do with me, and why do you
give me water? Didn't I refuse it to Willie, when he
begged so earnestly for it in the night time? But I 've
been paid—a thousand times paid—left by my own child
to die alone!”
Margaret was about asking for Lenora, when the young
lady herself appeared. She seemed for a moment greatly
surprised at the sight of Margaret, and then bounding to
her side, greeted her with much affection; while Mrs.
Hamilton jealously looked on, muttering to herself,
“Loves everybody better than she does me, her own
mother who has done so much for her.”
Lenora made no reply to this, although she manifested
much concern when Margaret told her in what state they
had found her mother.
“I went for a few moments to visit a sick friend,” said
she, “but told Hester to stay with mother until I returned;
and I wonder much that she should leave
her.”
“Lenora,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “Lenora, was that sick
friend the old porter?”
Lenora answered in the affirmative; and then her
mother, turning to Margaret, said, “You don't know
what a pest and torment this child has always been to
me, and now when I am dying, she deserts me for a low-lived
fellow, old enough to be her father.”
Lenora's eyes flashed scornfully upon her mother, but
she made no answer, and as Mr. Elwyn was in haste to
proceed on his journey, Margaret arose to go. Lenora
urged them to remain longer, but they declined; and as
she accompanied them to the door, Margaret said, “Lenora,
if your mother should die, and it would afford you
any satisfaction to have me come, I will do so, for I suppose
you have no near friends.”
Lenora hesitated a moment, and then whispering to
Margaret of the relationship existing between herself and
the old porter, she said, “He is sick and poor, but he is
my own father, and I love him dearly.”
The tears came to Margaret's eyes, for she thought of
her own father, called home while his brown hair was
scarcely touched with the frosts of time. Wistfully Lenora
watched the carriage as it disappeared from sight,
and then half reluctantly entered the sick-room, where,
for the remainder of the afternoon, she endured her
mother's reproaches for having left her alone, and where
once, when her patience was wholly exhausted, she said,
“It served you right, for now you know how little Willie
felt.”
The next day Mrs. Hamilton was much worse, and Lenora,
who had watched and who understood her symptoms,
felt confident that she would die, and loudly her
conscience upbraided her for her undutiful conduct. She
longed, too, to tell her that her father was still living;
seemed better, she arose, and bending over her pillow,
said, “Mother, did it ever occur to you that father might
not be dead?”
“Not be dead, Lenora! What do you mean?” asked
Mrs. Hamilton, starting up from her pillow.
Cautiously then Lenora commenced her story by referring
her mother back to the old beggar, who some
months before had been in the kitchen. Then she spoke
of the old porter, and the resemblance which was said to
exist between him and herself; and finally, as she saw her
mother could bear it, she told the whole story of her father's
life. Slowly the sick woman's eyes closed, and Lenora
saw that her eyelids were wet with tears, but as
she made no reply, Lenora, ere long, whispered, “Would
you like to see him, mother?”
“No, no; not now,” was the answer.
For a time there was silence, and then Lenora, again
speaking, said, “Mother, I have often been very wicked
and disrespectful to you, and if you should die, I should
feel much happier knowing that you forgave me. Will
you do it, mother, say?”
Mrs. Hamilton comprehended only the words, “if you
should die,” so she said, “Die, die! who says that I must
die? I shan't—I can't; for what could I tell her about
her children, and how could I live endless ages without
water. I tried it once, and I can't do it. No, I can't. I
won't!”
In this way she talked all night; and though in the
morning she was more rational, she turned away from the
clergyman, who at Lenora's request had been sent for,
saying, “It 's of no use, no use; I know all you would
say, but it 's too late, too late!”
Thus she continued for three days, and at the close of
Hester was immediately sent to the hotel, with a request
that the old porter would come quickly. Half an hour
after, Lenora bent over her mother's pillow, and whispered
in her ear, “Mother, can you hear me?”
A pressure of the hand was the reply, and Lenora
continued: “You have not said that you forgave me,
and now before you die, will you not tell me so?”
There was another pressure of the hand, and Lenora
again spoke: “Mother, would you like to see him—my
father? He is in the next room.”
This roused the dying woman, and starting up, she exclaimed,
“See John Carter! No, child, no. He'd only
curse me. Let him wait until I am dead, and then I shall
not hear it.”
In ten minutes more, Lenora was sadly gazing upon the
fixed, stony features of the dead. A gray-haired man was
at her side, and his lip quivered, as he placed his hand upon
the white, wrinkled brow of her who had once been his
wife. “She is fearfully changed,” were his only words,
as he turned away from the bed of death.
True to her promise, Margaret came to attend her step-mother's
funeral. Walter accompanied her, and shuddered
as he looked on the face of one who had so darkened
his home, and embittered his life. Kate was not
there, and when, after the burial, Lenora asked Margaret
for her, she was told of a little “Carrie Lenora,” who,
with pardonable pride, Walter thought was the only
baby of any consequence in the world. Margaret was
going on with a glowing description of the babe's many
beauties, when she was interrupted by Lenora who laid
her face in her lap and burst into tears.
“Why, Lenora, what is the matter?” asked Margaret.
As soon as Lenora became calm, she answered, “that
Hamilton's child, and if you had hated me, you would
never have done it.”
“Hated you!” repeated Margaret, “we do not hate
you; now that we understand you, we like you very
much, and one of Kate's last injunctions to Walter was,
that he should again offer you a home with him.”
Once more Lenora was weeping. She had not shed a
tear when they carried from sight her mother, but words
of kindness touched her heart, and the fountain was
opened. At last, drying her eyes, she said, “I prefer to
go with father. Walter will, of course, come back to
the homestead, while father and I shall return to our old
home in Connecticut, where, by being kind to him, I
hope to atone, in a measure, for my great unkindness to
mother.”
14. CHAPTER XIV.
FINALE.
Through the open casement of a small, white cottage
in the village of P—, the rays of the September moon
are stealing, disclosing to view a gray-haired man, whose
placid face still shows marks of long years of dissipation.
Affectionately he caresses the black, curly head, which is
resting on his knee, and softly he says, “Lenora, my
daughter, there are, I trust, years of happiness in store for
us both.”
“I hope it may be so,” was the answer, “but there is
no promise of many days to any save those who honor
though many, many times have I repented of it, and I
begin to be assured that we may be happy yet.”
Away to the westward, over many miles of woodland,
valley, and hill, the same September moon shines upon
the white walls of the homestead, where sits the owner,
Walter Hamilton, gazing first upon his wife, and then
upon the tiny treasure which lies sleeping upon her lap.
“We are very happy, Katy darling,” he says, and the
affection which looks from her large, blue eyes, as she
lifts them to his face, is a sufficient answer.
Margaret, too, is there, and though but an hour ago her
tears were falling upon the grass grown graves, where
slept her father and mother, the gentle Carrie and golden-haired
Willie, they are all gone now, and she responds
to her brother's words, “Yes, Walter, we are
very happy.”
In the basement below the candle is burned to its
socket, and as the last ray flickers up, illuminating for a
moment the room, and then leaving it in darkness, Aunt
Polly Pepper starts from her evening nap, and as if continuing
her dream, mutters, “Yes, this is pleasant, and
something like living.”
And so with the moonlight and starlight falling upon
the old homestead, and the sunlight of love falling upon
the hearts of its inmates, we bid them adieu.
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