Part 22 (2/2)
This resolution, however, did not bring her comfort, and the hands pressed so convulsively upon her side could not ease her pain. Surely never before had so dark an hour infolded that haughty woman, and a prayer that she might die was trembling on her lips when a footfall echoed along the hall, and Arthur Carrollton stood before her. His face was very pale, bearing marks of the storm he had pa.s.sed through; but he was calm, and his voice was natural as he said: ”Possibly what we have heard is false. It may be a vagary of Hagar's half-crazed brain.”
For an instant Madam Conway had hoped so too; but when she reflected, she knew that it was true. Old Hagar had been very minute in her explanations to Margaret, who in turn had written exactly what she had heard, and Madam Conway, when she recalled the past, could have no doubt that it was true. She remembered everything, but more distinctly the change of dress at the time of the baptism. There could be no mistake. Margaret was not hers, and so she said to Arthur Carrollton, turning her head away as if she too were in some way answerable for the disgrace.
”It matters not,” he replied, ”whose she has been. She is mine now, and if you feel able we will consult together as to the surest method of finding her.” A sudden faintness came over Madam Conway, and, while the expression of her face changed to one of joyful surprise, she stammered out: ”Can it be I hear aright? Do I understand you? Are you willing to take poor Maggie back?”
”I certainly have no other intention,” he answered. ”There was a moment, the memory of which makes me ashamed, when my pride rebelled; but it is over now, and though Maggie cannot in reality be again your child, she can be my wife, and I must find her.”
”You make me so happy--oh, so happy!” said Madam Conway. ”I feared you would cast her off, and in that case it would have been my duty to do so too, though I never loved a human being as at this moment I love her.”
Mr. Carrollton looked as if he did not fully comprehend the woman who, loving Margaret as she said she did, could yet be so dependent upon his decision; but he made no comment, and when next he spoke he announced his intention of calling upon Hagar, who possibly could tell him where Margaret had gone. ”At all events,” said he, ”I may ascertain why the secret, so long kept, was at this late day divulged.
It may be well,” he continued, ”to say nothing to the servants as yet, save that Maggie has gone. Mrs. Jeffrey, however, had better be let into the secret at once. We can trust her, I think.”
Madam Conway bowed, and Mr. Carrollton left the room, starting immediately for the cottage by the mine. As he approached the house he saw the servant who for several weeks had been staying there, and who now came out to meet him, telling him that since the night before Hagar had been raving crazy, talking continually of Maggie, who, she said, had gone where none would ever find her.
In some anxiety Mr. Carrollton pressed on, until the cottage door was reached, where for a moment he stood gazing silently upon the poor woman before him. Upon the bed, her white hair falling over her round, bent shoulders, and her large eyes s.h.i.+ning with delirious light, old Hagar sat, waving back and forth, and talking of Margaret, of Hester, and ”the little foolish child,” who, with a sneer upon her lip, she said, ”was a fair specimen of the Conway race.”
”Hagar,” said Mr. Carrollton; and at the sound of that voice Hagar turned toward him her flas.h.i.+ng eyes, then with a scream buried her head in the bedclothes, saying: ”Go away, Arthur Carrollton! Why are you here? Don't you know who I am? Don't you know what Margaret is, and don't you know how proud you are?”
”Hagar,” he said again, subduing, by a strong effort, the repugnance he felt at questioning her, ”I know all, except where Margaret has gone, and if on this point you can give me any information, I shall receive it most thankfully.”
”Gone!” shrieked Hagar, starting up in bed; ”then she has gone. The play is played out, the performance is ended--and I have sinned for nothing!”
”Hagar, will you tell me where Maggie is? I wish to follow her,” said Mr. Carrollton; and Hagar answered: ”Maggie, Maggie--he said that lovingly enough, but there's a catch somewhere. He does not wish to follow her for any good--and though I know where she has gone I'll surely never tell. I kept one secret nineteen years. I can keep another as long”; and, folding her arms upon her chest, she commenced singing, ”I know full well, but I'll never tell.”
Biting his lips with vexation, Mr. Carrollton tried first by persuasion, then by flattery, and lastly by threats, to obtain from her the desired information, but in vain. Her only answer was, ”I know full well, but I'll never tell,” save once, when tossing towards him her long white hair, she shrieked: ”Don't you see a resemblance--only hers is black--and so was mine nineteen years ago--and so was Hester's too--glossy and black as the raven's wing. The child is like the mother--the mother was like the grandmother, and the grandmother is like--me, Hagar Warren. Do you understand?”
Mr. Carrollton made no answer, and with a feeling of disappointment walked away, shuddering as he thought, ”And she is Margaret's grandmother.”
He found Madam Conway in hysterics on Margaret's bed, for she had refused to leave the room, saying she would die there, or nowhere.
Gradually the reality of her loss had burst upon her, and now, gasping, choking, and wringing her hands, she lay upon the pillows, while Mrs. Jeffrey, worked up to a pitch of great nervous excitement, fidgeted hither and thither, doing always the wrong thing, fanning the lady when she did not wish to be fanned, and ceasing to fan her just when she was ”dying for want of air.”
As yet Mrs. Jeffrey knew nothing definite, except that something dreadful had happened to Margaret; but very candidly Mr. Carrollton told her all, bidding her keep silent on the subject; then, turning to Madam Conway, he repeated to her the result of his call on old Hagar.
”The wretch!” gasped Madam Conway, while Mrs. Jeffrey, running in her fright from the window to the door, and from the door back to the window again, exclaimed: ”Margaret not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport, after all! It is just what I expected. I always knew she came honestly by those low-bred ways!”
”Jeffrey,” and the voice of the hysterical woman on the bed was loud and distinct, as she grasped the arm of the terrified little governess, who chanced to be within her reach. ”Jeffrey, either leave my house at once, or speak more deferentially of Miss Miller. You will call her by that name, too. It matters not to Mr. Carrollton and myself whose child she has been. She is ours now, and must be treated with respect. Do you understand me?”
”Yes, ma'am,” meekly answered Jeffrey, rubbing her dumpy arm, which bore the mark of a thumb and finger, and as her services were not just then required she glided from the room to drown, if possible, her grievance in the leather-bound London edition of Baxter!
Meanwhile Madam Conway was consulting with Mr. Carrollton as to the best mode of finding Margaret. ”She took the cars, of course,” said Mr. Carrollton, adding that he should go at once to the depot and ascertain which way she went. ”If I do not return to-night you need not be alarmed,” he said, as he was leaving the room, whereupon Madam Conway called him back, bidding him telegraph for Theo at once, as she must have someone with her besides that vexatious Jeffrey.
Mr. Carrollton promised compliance with her request, and then went immediately to the depot, where he learned that no one had entered the cars from that place on the previous night, and that Maggie, if she took the train at all, must have done so at some other station. This was not unlikely, and before the day was pa.s.sed Mr. Carrollton had visited several different stations, and had talked with the conductors of the several trains, but all to no purpose; and, very much disheartened, he returned at nightfall to the old stone house, where to his surprise he found both Theo and her husband. The telegram had done its mission, and feeling anxious to know the worst George had come up with Theo to spend the night. It was the first time that Madam Conway had seen him since her memorable encounter with his mother, for though Theo had more than once been home, he had never before accompanied her, and now when Madam Conway heard his voice in the hall below she groaned afresh. The sight of his good-humored face, however, and his kind offer to do whatever he could to find the fugitive, restored her composure in a measure, and she partially forgot that he was in any way connected with the blue umbrella, or the blue umbrella connected with him! Never in her life had Theo felt very deeply upon any subject, and now, though she seemed bewildered at what she heard, she manifested no particular emotion, until her grandmother, wringing her hands, exclaimed, ”You have no sister now, my child, and I no Margaret!” Then, indeed, her tears flowed, and when her husband whispered to her, ”We will love poor Maggie all the same,” she cried aloud, but not quite as demonstratively as Madam Conway wished; and, in a very unamiable frame of mind, the old lady accused her of being selfish and hard-hearted.
At this stage of proceedings Mr. Carrollton returned, bringing no tidings of Maggie, whereupon another fit of hysterics ensued, and as Theo behaved much worse than Mrs. Jeffrey had done, the latter was finally summoned again to the sickroom, and at last succeeded in quieting the excited woman. The next morning George Douglas visited old Hagar, but he too was unsuccessful, and that afternoon he returned to Worcester, leaving Theo with her grandmother, who, though finding fault with whatever she did, refused to let her go until Margaret was found.
During the remainder of the week Mr. Carrollton rode through the country, making the most minute inquiries, and receiving always the same discouraging answer. Once he thought to advertise, but from making the affair thus public he instinctively shrank, and, resolving to spare neither his time, his money, nor his health, he pursued his weary way alone. Once, too, Madam Conway spoke of Henry Warner, saying it was possible Maggie might have gone to him, as she had thought so much of Rose; but Mr. Carrollton ”knew better.” A discarded lover, he said, was the last person in the world to whom a young girl like Margaret would go, particularly as Theo had said that Henry was now the husband of another.
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