Part 24 (1/2)
But Madam Conway persisted in being unreasonable, and matters grew gradually worse until the day when Margaret was found at the Falls. On that morning Madam Conway determined upon riding. ”Fresh air will do me good,” she said, ”and you have kept me in a hot chamber long enough.”
Accordingly, the carriage was brought out, and Madam Conway carefully lifted in; but ere fifty rods were pa.s.sed the coachman was ordered to drive back, as she could not endure the jolt. ”I told you I couldn't, all the time;” and her eyes turned reprovingly upon poor Theo, sitting silently in the opposite corner.
”The Lord help me, if she isn't coming back so soon!” sighed Mrs.
Jeffrey, as she saw the carriage returning, and went to meet the invalid, who had ”taken her death of cold,” just as she knew she should when they insisted upon her going out.
That day was far worse than any which had preceded it. It was probably her last, Madam Conway said, and numerous were the charges she gave to Theo concerning Margaret, should she ever be found. The house, the farm, the furniture and plate were all to be hers, while to Theo was given the lady's wardrobe, saving such articles as Margaret might choose for herself, and if she never were found the house and farm were to be Mr. Carrollton's. This was too much for Theo, who resolved to go home on the morrow, at all hazards, and she had commenced making preparations for leaving, when to her great joy her husband came, and in recounting to him her trials she forgot in a measure how unhappy she had been. George Douglas was vastly amused at what he heard, and resolved to experiment a little with the lady, who was so weak as to notice him only with a slight nod when he first entered the room. He saw at a glance that nothing in particular was the matter, and when towards night she lay panting for breath, with her eyes half closed, he approached her and said, ”Madam, in case you die--”
”In case I die!” she whispered indignantly. ”It doesn't admit of a doubt. My feet are as cold as icicles now.”
”Certainly,” said he. ”I beg your pardon; of course you'll die.”
The lady turned away rather defiantly for a dying woman, and George continued, ”What I mean to say is this--if Margaret is never found, you wish the house to be Mr. Carrollton's?”
”Yes, everything, my wardrobe and all,” came from beneath the bedclothes; and George proceeded: ”Mr. Carrollton cannot of course take the house to England, and, as he will need a trusty tenant, would you object greatly if my father and mother should come here to live?
They'd like it, I--”
The sentence was unfinished--the bunches in the throat which for hours had prevented the sick woman from speaking aloud, and were eventually to choke her to death, disappeared; Madam Conway found her voice, and, starting up, screamed out, ”That abominable woman and heathenish girl in this house, in my house; I'll live forever, first!” and her angry eyes flashed forth their indignation.
”I thought the mention of mother would revive her,” said George, aside, to Theo, who, convulsed with laughter, had hidden herself behind the window curtain.
Mr. Douglas was right, for not again that afternoon did Madam Conway speak of dying, though she kept her bed until nightfall, when art incident occurred which brought her at once to her feet, making her forget that she had ever been otherwise than well.
In her cottage by the mine old Hagar had raved and sung and wept, talking much of Margaret, but never telling whither she had gone.
Latterly, however, she had grown more calm, talking far less than heretofore, and sleeping a great portion of the day, so that the servant who attended her became neglectful, leaving her many hours alone, while she, at the stone house, pa.s.sed her time more agreeably than at the lonesome hut. On the afternoon of which we write she was as usual at the house, and though the sun went down she did not hasten back, for her patient, she said, was sure to sleep, and even if she woke she did not need much care.
Meantime old Hagar slumbered on. It was a deep, refres.h.i.+ng sleep, and when at last she did awake, her reason was in a measure restored, and she remembered everything distinctly up to the time of Margaret's last visit, when she said she was going away. And Margaret had gone away, she was sure of that, for she remembered Arthur Carrollton stood once within that room, and besought of her to tell if she knew aught of Maggie's destination. She did know, but she had not told, and perhaps they had not found her yet. Raising herself in bed, she called aloud to the servant, but there came no answer; and for an hour or more she waited impatiently, growing each moment more and more excited. If Margaret were found she wished to know it, and if she were not found it was surely her duty to go at once and tell them where she was.
But could she walk? She stepped upon the floor and tried. Her limbs trembled beneath her weight, and, sinking into a chair, she cried, ”I can't! I can't!”
Half an hour later she heard the sound of wheels. A neighboring farmer was returning home from Richland, and had taken the cross road as his shortest route. ”Perhaps he will let me ride,” she thought, and, hobbling to the door, she called after him, making known her request.
Wondering what ”new freak” had entered her mind, the man consented, and just as it was growing dark he set her down at Madam Conway's gate, where, half fearfully, the bewildered woman gazed around. The windows of Margaret's room were open, a figure moved before them; Margaret might be there; and entering the hall door un.o.bserved, she began to ascend the stairs, crawling upon her hands and knees, and pausing several times to rest.
It was nearly dark in the sickroom, and as Mrs. Jeffrey had just gone out, and Theo, in the parlor below, was enjoying a quiet talk with her husband, Madam Conway was quite alone. For a time she lay thinking of Margaret; then her thoughts turned upon George and his ”amazing proposition.” ”Such unheard of insolence!” she exclaimed, and she was proceeding farther with her soliloquy, when a peculiar noise upon the stairs caught her ear, and raising herself upon her elbow she listened intently to the sound, which came nearer and nearer, and seemed like someone creeping slowly, painfully, for she could hear at intervals a long-drawn breath or groan, and with a vague feeling of uneasiness she awaited anxiously the appearance of her visitor; nor waited long, for the half-closed door swung slowly back, and through the gathering darkness the shape came crawling on, over the threshold, into the room, towards the corner, its limbs distorted and bent, its white hair sweeping the floor. With a smothered cry Madam Conway hid beneath the bedclothes, looking cautiously out at the singular object which came creeping on until the bed was reached. It touched the counterpane, it was struggling to regain its feet, and with a scream of horror the terrified woman cried out, ”Fiend, why are you here?” while a faint voice replied, ”I am looking for Margaret. I thought she was in bed”; and, rising up from her crouching posture, Hagar Warren stood face to face with the woman she had so long deceived.
”Wretch!” exclaimed the latter, her pride returning as she recognized old Hagar and thought of her as Maggie's grandmother. ”Wretch, how dare you come into my presence? Leave this room at once,” and a shrill cry of ”Theo! Theo!” rang through the house, bringing Theo at once to the chamber, where she started involuntarily at the sight which met her view.
”Who is it? who is it?” she exclaimed.
”It's Hagar Warren. Take her away!” screamed Madam Conway; while Hagar, raising her withered hand deprecatingly, said: ”Hear me first.
Do you know where Margaret is? Has she been found?”
”No, no,” answered Theo, bounding to her side, while Madam Conway forgot to scream, and bent eagerly forward to listen, her symptoms of dissolution disappearing one by one as the strange narrative proceeded, and ere its close she was nearly dressed, standing erect as ever, her face glowing, and her eyes lighted up with joy.
”Gone to Leominster! Henry Warner's half-sister!” she exclaimed. ”Why didn't she add a postscript to that letter, and tell us so? Though the poor child couldn't think of everything;” and then, unmindful of George Douglas, who at that moment entered the room, she continued: ”I should suppose Douglas might have found it out ere this. But the moment I put my eyes upon _that woman_ I knew no child of hers would ever know enough to find Margaret. The Warners are a tolerably good family, I presume. I'll go after her at once. Theo, bring my broche shawl, and wouldn't you wear my satin hood? 'Twill be warmer than my leghorn.”
”Grandma,” said Theo, in utter astonishment, ”What do you mean? You surely are not going to Leominster to-night, as sick as you are?”
”Yes, I am going to Leominster to-night,” answered the decided woman; ”and this gentleman,” waving her hand majestically towards George, ”will oblige me much by seeing that the carriage is brought out.”
Theo was about to remonstrate, when George whispered: ”Let her go; Henry and Rose are probably not at home, but Margaret may be there. At all events, a little airing will do the old lady good;” and, rather pleased than otherwise with the expedition, he went after John, who p.r.o.nounced his mistress ”crazier than Hagar.”