During the remainder of the spring matters at the old stone house proceeded about as usual, Maggie writing regularly to Henry, who as regularly answered, while old Hagar managed it so adroitly that no one suspected the secret correspondence, and Madam Conway began to hope her granddaughter had forgotten the foolish fancy. Arthur Carrollton had replied that his visit to America, though sure to take place, was postponed indefinitely, and so the good lady had nothing in particular with which to busy herself, save the preparations for Theo's wedding, which was to take place near the first of July.
Though setting a high value upon money, Madam Conway was not penurious, and the bridal trousseau far exceeded anything which Theo had expected. As the young couple were not to keep house for a time, a most elegant suite of rooms had been selected in a fashionable hotel; and determining that Theo should not, in point of dress, be rivaled by any of her fellow-boarders, Madam Conway spared neither time nor money in making the outfit perfect. So for weeks the old stone house presented a scene of great confusion. Chairs, tables, lounges, and piano were piled with finery, on which Anna Jeffrey worked industriously, assisted sometimes by her aunt, whom Madam Conway pronounced altogether too superannuated for a governess, and who, though really an excellent scholar, was herself far better pleased with muslin robes and satin bows than with French idioms and Latin verbs. Perfectly delighted, Maggie joined in the general excitement, wondering occasionally when and where her own bridal would be. Once she ventured to ask if Henry Warner and his sister might be invited to Theo's wedding; but Madam Conway answered so decidedly in the negative that she gave it up, consoling herself with thinking that she would some time visit her sister, and see Henry in spite of her grandmother.
The marriage was very quiet, for Madam Conway had no acquaintance, and the family alone witnessed the ceremony. At first Madam Conway had hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Douglas, senior, together with their daughter Jenny, would be present, and she had accordingly requested George to invite them, feeling greatly disappointed when she learned that they could not come.
"I wanted so much to see them," she said to Maggie, "and know whether they are worthy to be related to the Conways—but of course they are, as much so as any American family. George has every appearance of refinement and high-breeding."
"But his family, for all that, may be as ignorant as Farmer Canfield's," answered Maggie; to which her grandmother replied: "You needn't tell me that, for I'm not to be deceived in such matters. I can tell at a glance if a person is low-born, no matter what their education or advantages may have been. Who's that?" she added quickly, and turning round she saw old Hagar, her eyes lighted up and her lips moving with incoherent sounds.
Hagar had come up to the wedding, and had reached the door of Madam Conway's room just in time to hear the last remark, which roused her at once.
"Why don't she discover my secret, then," she muttered, "if she has so much discernment? Why don't she see the Hagar blood in her? for it's there, plain as day;" and she glanced proudly at Maggie, who, in her simple robe of white, was far more beautiful than the bride.
And still Theo, in her handsome traveling dress, was very fair to look upon, and George Douglas felt proud that she was his, resolving, as he kissed away the tears she shed at parting, that the vow he had just made should never be broken. A few weeks of pleasant travel westward, and then the newly wedded pair came back to what, for a time, was to be their home.
George Douglas was highly respected in Worcester, both as a man of honor and a man of wealth; consequently, every possible attention was paid to Theo, who was petted and admired, until she began to wonder why neither Maggie nor yet her all-discerning grandmother had discovered how charming and faultless she was!
Among George's acquaintance was a Mrs. Morton, a dashing, fashionable woman, who determined to honor the bride with a party, to which all the elite of Worcester were invited, together with many Bostonians. Madam Conway and Maggie were of course upon the list; and, as timely notice was given them by Theo, Madam Conway went twice to Springfield in quest of a suitable dress for Maggie. She wanted something becoming, she said; and a delicate rose-colored satin, with a handsome overskirt of lace, was at last decided upon.
"She must have some pearls for her hair," thought Madam Conway; and when next Maggie, who, girl-like, tried the effect of her first party dress at least a dozen times, stood before the glass to see if it were exactly the right length, she was presented with the pearls, which Anna Jeffrey, with a feeling of envy at her heart, arranged in the shining braids of her hair.
"Oh, isn't it perfectly splendid!" cried Maggie, herself half inclined to compliment the beautiful image reflected in the mirror.
"You ought to see Arthur Carrollton's sister when she is dressed, if you think you look handsome," answered Anna, adding that diamonds were much more fashionable than pearls.
"You have attended a great many parties and seen a great deal of fashion, so I dare say you are right," Maggie answered ironically; and then, as through the open window she saw Hagar approaching, she ran out upon the piazza, to see what the old woman would say.
Hagar had never seen her thus before, and now, throwing up her hands in astonishment, she involuntarily dropped upon her knees, and, while the tears rained over her timeworn face, whispered, "Hester's child—my granddaughter—Heaven be praised!"
"Do I look pretty?" Margaret asked; and Hagar answered: "More beautiful than anyone I ever saw. I wish your mother could see you now."
Involuntarily Maggie glanced at the tall marble gleaming through the distant trees, while Hagar's thoughts were down in that other grave—the grave beneath the pine. The next day was the party, and at an early hour Madam Conway was ready. Her rich purple satin and Valenciennes laces, with which she hoped to impress Mrs. Douglas, senior, were carefully packed up, together with Maggie's dress; and then, shawled and bonneted, she waited impatiently for her carriage, which she preferred to the cars. It came at last, but in place of John, the usual coachman, Mike, a rather wild youth of twenty, was mounted upon the box. His father, he said, had been taken suddenly ill, and had deputized him to drive.
For a time Madam Conway hesitated, for she knew Mike's one great failing, and she hardly dared risk herself with him, lest she should find a seat less desirable even than the memorable brush-heap. But Mike protested loudly to having joined the "Sons of Temperance" only the night before, and as in his new suit of blue, with shining brass buttons, he presented a more stylish appearance than his father, his mistress finally decided to try him, threatening all manner of evil if in any way he broke his pledge, either to herself or the "Sons," the latter of whom had probably never heard of him. He was perfectly sober now, and drove them safely to Worcester, where they soon found themselves in Theo's handsome rooms. Her wrappings removed and herself snugly ensconced in a velvet-cushioned chair, Madam Conway asked the young bride how long before Mrs. Douglas, senior, would probably arrive.
A slight shadow, which no one observed, passed over Theo's face as she answered, "George's father seldom goes into society, and consequently his mother will not come."
"Oh, I am so sorry!" replied Madam Conway, thinking of the purple satin, and continuing, "Nor the young lady, either?"
"None of them," answered Theo, adding hastily, as if to change the conversation, "Isn't my piano perfectly elegant?" and she ran her fingers over an exquisitely carved instrument, which had inscribed upon it simply "Theo"; and then, as young brides sometimes will, she expatiated upon the kindness and generosity of George, showing, withal, that her love for her husband was founded upon something far more substantial than family or wealth.
Her own happiness, it would seem, had rendered her less selfish and more thoughtful for others; for once that afternoon, on returning to her room after a brief absence, she whispered to Maggie that "someone in the parlor below wished to see her."
Then seating herself at her grandmother's feet, she entertained her so well with a description of her travels that the good lady failed to observe the absence of Maggie, who, face to face with Henry Warner, was making amends for their long separation. Much they talked of the past, and then Henry spoke of the future; but of this Maggie was less hopeful. Her grandmother would never consent to their marriage, she knew—the "Stars and Stripes" had decided that matter, even though there were no Arthur Carrollton across the sea, and Maggie sighed despondingly as she thought of the long years of single-blessedness in store for her.
"There is but one alternative left, then," said Henry. "If your grandmother refuses her consent altogether, I must take you without her consent."
"I shan't run away," said Maggie; "I shall live an old maid, and you must live an old bachelor, until grandma—"
She did not have time to finish the sentence ere Henry commenced unfolding the following plan:
"It is necessary," he said, "for either myself or Mr. Douglas to go to Cuba; and as Rose's health makes a change of climate advisable for her, George has proposed to me to go and take my sister there for the winter. And, Maggie," he continued, "will you go, too? We are to sail the middle of October, stopping for a few weeks in Florida, until the unhealthy season in Havana is passed. I will see your grandmother to-morrow morning—will once more honorably ask her for your hand, and if she still refuses, as you think she will, it cannot surely be wrong in you to consult your own happiness instead of her prejudices. I will meet you at old Hagar's cabin at the time appointed. Rose and my aunt, who is to accompany her, will be in New York, whither we will go immediately. A few moments more and you will be my wife, and beyond the control of your grandmother. Do you approve my plan, Maggie, darling? Will you go?"
Maggie could not answer him then, for an elopement was something from which she instinctively shrunk, and with a faint hope that her grandmother might consent she went back to her sister's room, where she had not yet been missed. Very rapidly the remainder of the afternoon passed away, and at an early hour, wishing to know "exactly how she was going to look," Maggie commenced her toilet. Theo, too, desirous of displaying her white satin as long as possible, began to dress; while Madam Conway, in no haste to don her purple satin, which was uncomfortably tight, amused herself by watching the passers-by, nodding at intervals, in her chair.
While thus occupied, a perfumed note was brought to her, the contents of which elicited from her an exclamation of surprise.
"Can it be possible!" she said; and thrusting the note into her pocket she hastily left the room.
She was gone a long, long time; and when at last she returned, she was evidently much excited, paying no attention whatever to Theo, who, in her bridal robes, looked charming, but minutely inspecting Maggie, to see if in her adornings there was aught out of its place. Her dress was faultless, and she looked so radiantly beautiful, as she stood before her grandmother, that the old lady kissed her fondly, whispering, as she did so, "You are indeed beautiful!" It was a long time ere Madam Conway commenced her own toilet, and then she proceeded so slowly that George Douglas became impatient, and she finally suggested that he and Theo should go without her, sending the carriage back for herself and Maggie. To this proposition he at last yielded; and when they were left alone Madam Conway greatly accelerated her movements, dressing herself in a few moments, and then, much to Maggie's surprise, going below without a word of explanation. A few moments only elapsed ere a servant was sent to Maggie, saying that her presence was desired at No. 40, a small private parlor adjoining the public drawing rooms.
"What can it mean? Is it possible that Henry is there?" Maggie asked herself, as with a beating heart she descended the stairs.
A moment more, and Maggie stood on the threshhold of No. 40. Seated upon the sofa was Madam Conway, her purple satin seeming to have taken a wide sweep, and her face betokening the immense degree of satisfaction she felt in being there with the stylish, elegant-looking stranger who stood at her side, with his deep, expressive eyes fixed upon the door expectantly. Maggie knew him in a moment—knew it was Arthur Carrollton; and, turning pale, she started backward, while he advanced forward, and, offering her his hand, looked down upon her with a winning smile, saying, as he did so: "Excuse my familiarity. You are Maggie Miller, I am sure."
For an instant Maggie could not reply, but soon becoming composed she received the stranger gracefully, and then taking the chair he politely brought her she listened while her grandmother told that he had arrived at Montreal two weeks before; that he had reached Hillsdale that morning, an hour or two after their departure, and, learning their destination, had followed them in the cars; that she had taken the liberty of informing Mrs. Morton of his arrival, and that lady had of course extended to him an invitation to be present at her party.
"Which invitation I accept, provided Miss Maggie allows me to be her escort," said the young man, and again his large black eyes rested admiringly upon her.
Maggie had anticipated a long, quiet talk with Henry Warner, and, wishing the Englishman anywhere but there, she answered coldly, "I cannot well decline your escort, Mr. Carrollton, so of course I accept it."
Madam Conway bit her lip, but Mr. Carrollton, who was prepared for anything from Maggie Miller, was not in the least displeased, and, consulting his diamond-set watch, which pointed to nearly ten, he asked if it were not time to go.
"Certainly," said Madam Conway. "You remain here, Maggie; I will bring down your shawl," and she glided from the room, leaving them purposely alone.
Maggie was a good deal astonished, slightly embarrassed, and a little provoked, all of which Arthur Carrollton readily saw; but this did not prevent his talking to her, and during the few minutes of Madam Conway's absence he decided that neither Margaret's beauty, nor yet her originality, had been overrated by her partial grandmother, while Maggie, on her part, mentally pronounced him "the finest-looking, the most refined, the most gentlemanly, the proudest, and the hatefulest man she had ever seen!"
Wholly unconscious of her cogitation, he wrapped her shawl very carefully about her, taking care to cover her white shoulders from the night air; then offering his arm to her grandmother, he led the way to the carriage, whither she followed him, wondering if Henry would be jealous, and thinking her first act would be to tell him how she hated Arthur Carrollton, and always should!
* * * * *
It was a gay, brilliant scene which Mrs. Morton's drawing room presented; and, as yet the center of attraction, Theo, near the door, was bowing to the many strangers who sought her acquaintance. Greatly she marveled at the long delay of her grandmother and Maggie, and she had just suggested to Henry that he should go in quest of them, when she saw her sister ascending the stairs.
On a sofa across the room sat a pale young girl arrayed in white, her silken curls falling around her neck like a golden shower, and her mournful eyes of blue scanning eagerly each newcomer, then a look of disappointment drooping beneath the long lashes which rested wearily upon her colorless cheek. It was Rose Warner, and the face she sought was Maggie Miller's. She had seen no semblance of it yet, for Henry had no daguerreotype. Still, she felt sure she would know it, and when at last, in all her queenly beauty, Maggie came, leaning on Arthur Carrollton's arm, Rose's heart made ready answer to the oft-repeated question, "Who is she?"
"Beautiful, gloriously beautiful!" she whispered softly, while from the grave of her buried hopes there came one wild heart-throb, one sudden burst of pain caused by the first sight of her rival, and then Rose Warner grew calm again, and those who saw the pressure of her hand upon her side dreamed not of the fierce pang within. She had asked her brother not to tell Maggie she was to be there. She would rather watch her a while, herself unknown; and now with eager, curious eyes she followed Maggie, who was quickly surrounded by a host of admirers.
It was Maggie's first introduction into society, and yet so perfect was her intuition of what was proper that neither by word or deed did she do aught to shock the most fastidious. It is true her merry laugh more than once rang out above the din of voices; but it was so joyous that no one objected, particularly when they looked in her bright and almost childish face. Arthur Carrollton, too, acting as her escort, aided her materially, for it was soon whispered around that he was a wealthy Englishman, and many were the comments made upon the handsome couple, who seemed singularly adapted to each other. A glance had convinced Arthur Carrollton that Maggie was by far the most beautiful lady present, and feeling that on this her first introduction into society she needed someone to shield her, as it were, from the many foolish, flattering speeches which were sure to be made in her hearing, he kept her at his side, where she was nothing loath to stay; for, notwithstanding that she "hated" him so, there was about him a fascination she did not try to resist.
"They are a splendid couple," thought Rose, and then she looked to see how Henry was affected by the attentions of the handsome foreigner.
But Henry was not jealous; and, standing a little aloof, he felt more pleasure than pain in watching Maggie as she received the homage of the gay throng. Thoughts similar to those of Rose, however, forced themselves upon him as he saw the dignified bearing of Mr. Carrollton, and for the first time in his life he was conscious of an uncomfortable feeling of inferiority to some thing or some body, he hardly knew what. This feeling, however, passed away when Maggie came at last to his side, with her winning smile and playful words.
Very closely Madam Conway watched her now; but Maggie did not heed it, and leaning on Henry's arm she seemed oblivious to all save him. After a time he led her out upon a side piazza, where they would be comparatively alone. Observing that she seemed a little chilly, he left her for a moment while he went in quest of her shawl. Scarcely was he gone when a slight, fairy form came flitting through the moonlight to where Maggie sat, and, twining its snow-white arms around her neck, looked lovingly into her eyes, whispering soft and low, "My sister!"
"My sister!" How Maggie's blood bounded at the sound of that name, which even the night wind, sighing through the trees, seemed to take up and repeat. "My sister!" What was there in those words thus to affect her? Was that fair young creature, who hung so fondly over her, naught to her save a common stranger? Was there no tie between them, no bond of sympathy and love? We ask this of you, our reader, and not of Maggie Miller, for to her there came no questioning like this. She only knew that every pulsation of her heart responded to the name of sister, when breathed by sweet Rose Warner, and, folding her arms about her, she pillowed the golden head upon her bosom, and, pushing back the clustering curls, gazed long and earnestly into a face which seemed so heavenly and pure.
Few were the words they uttered at first, for a mysterious, invisible something prompted each to look into the other's eyes, to clasp the other's hands, to kiss the other's lips, and lovingly to whisper the other's name.
"I have wished so much to see you, to know if you are worthy of my noble brother," said Rose at last, thinking she must say something on the subject uppermost in both their minds.
"And am I worthy?" asked Maggie, the bright blushes stealing over her cheek. "Will you let me be your sister?"
"My heart would claim you for that, even though I had no brother," answered Rose, and again her lips touched those of Maggie.
Seeing them thus together, Henry tarried purposely a long time, and when at last he rejoined them he proposed returning to the drawing room, where many inquiries were making for Maggie.
"I have looked for you a long time, Miss Maggie," said Mr. Carrollton. "I wish to hear you play;" and, taking her arm in his, he led her to the piano.
From the moment of her first introduction to him Maggie had felt that there was something commanding in his manner, something she could not disobey; and now, though she fancied it was impossible to play before that multitude, she seated herself mechanically, and while the keys swam before her eyes, went through with a difficult piece which she had never but once before executed correctly.
"You have done well; much better than I anticipated," said Mr. Carrollton, again offering her his arm; and though a little vexed, those few words of commendation were worth more to Maggie than the most flattering speech which Henry Warner had ever made to her.
Soon after leaving the piano a young man approached and invited her to waltz. This was something in which Maggie excelled; for two winters before Madam Conway had hired a teacher to instruct her granddaughters in dancing, and she was about to accept the invitation, when, drawing her arm still closer within his own, Mr. Carrollton looked down upon her, saying softly, "I wouldn't."
Maggie had often waltzed with Henry at home. He saw no harm in it, and now when Arthur Carrollton objected, she was provoked, while at the same time she felt constrained to decline.
"Some time, when I know you better, I will explain to you why I do not think it proper for young girls to waltz with everyone," said Mr. Carrollton; and, leading her from the drawing room, he devoted himself to her for the remainder of the evening, making himself so perfectly agreeable that Maggie forgot everything, even Henry Warner, who in the meantime had tried to obtain recognition from Madam Conway as an acquaintance.
A cool nod, however, was all the token of recognition she had to give him. This state of feeling augured ill for the success of his suit; but when at a late hour that night, in spite of grandmother or Englishman, he handed Maggie to the carriage, he whispered to her softly, "I will see her to-morrow morning, and know the worst."
The words caught the quick ear of Madam Conway; but, not wishing Mr. Carrollton to know there was anything particular between her granddaughter and Henry Warner, she said nothing, and when, arrived at last at the hotel, she asked an explanation, Maggie, who hurried off to bed, was too sleepy to give her any answer.
"I shall know before long, anyway, if he sees me in the morning," she thought, as she heard a distant clock strike two, and settling her face into the withering frown with which she intended to annihilate Henry Warner, the old lady was herself ere long much faster asleep than the young girl at her side, who was thinking of Henry Warner, wishing he was three inches taller, or herself three inches shorter, and wondering if his square shoulders would not be somewhat improved by braces!
"I never noticed how short and crooked he was," she thought, "until I saw him standing by the side of Mr. Carrollton, who is such a splendid figure, so tall and straight; but big, overgrown girls like me always get short husbands, they say;" and satisfied with this conclusion she fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIV.
MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS.
At a comparatively early hour Madam Conway arose, and going to the parlor found there Arthur Carrollton, who asked if Margaret were not yet up. "Say that I wish her to ride with me on horseback," said he. "The morning air will do her good;" and, quite delighted, Madam Conway carried the message to her granddaughter.
"Tell him I shan't do it," answered the sleepy Maggie, adjusting herself for another nap. Then, as she thought how his eyes probably looked as he said, "I wish her to ride," she felt impelled to obey, and greatly to her grandmother's surprise she commenced dressing.
Theo's riding dress was borrowed, and though it did not fit her exactly she looked unusually well when she met Mr. Carrollton in the lower hall, and once mounted upon the gay steed, and galloping away into the country, she felt more than repaid for the loss of her morning slumber.
"You ride well," said Mr. Carrollton, when at last they paused upon the brow of a hill overlooking the town, "but you have some faults which, with your permission, I will correct," and in the most polite and gentlemanly manner he proceeded to speak of a few points wherein her riding might be improved.
Among other things, he said she rode too fast for a lady; and, biting her lip, Maggie thought, "If I only had Gritty here, I'd lead him such a race as would either break his bones or his neck, I'm not particular which."
Still, she followed his directions implicitly, and when, ere they reached home, he told her that she excelled many who had been for years to riding schools, she felt repaid for his criticisms, which she knew were just, even if they were not agreeable. Breakfast being over, he announced his intention of going down to Boston, telling Maggie he should probably return that evening and go with her to Hillsdale on the morrow.
Scarcely had he gone when Henry Warner appeared, asking an interview with Madam Conway, who haughtily led the way into a private room. Very candidly and honorably Henry made known to her his wishes, whereupon a most stormy scene ensued, the lady so far forgetting herself as to raise her voice several notes above its usual pitch, while Henry, angered by her insulting words, bade her take the consequences of her refusal, hinting that girls had been known to marry without their guardian's consent.
"An elopement, hey? He threatens me with an elopement, does he?" said Madam Conway, as the door closed after him. "I am glad he warned me in time," and then, trembling in every limb lest Maggie should be spirited away before her very eyes, she determined upon going home immediately and leaving Arthur Carrollton to follow in the cars.
Accordingly, Maggie was bidden to pack her things at once, the excited old lady keeping her eye constantly upon her to see that she did not disappear through the window or some other improbable place. In silence Maggie obeyed, pouting the while a very little, partly because she should not again see Henry, partly because she had confidently expected to ride home with Mr. Carrollton, and partly because she wished to stay to the firemen's muster, which had long been talked about, and was to take place on the morrow. They were ready at last, and then in a very perturbed state of feeling Madam Conway waited for her carriage, which was not forthcoming, and upon inquiry George Douglas learned that, having counted upon another day in the city, Mike was now going through with a series of plunge-baths, by way of sobering himself ere appearing before his mistress. This, however, George kept from Madam Conway, not wishing to alarm her; and when after a time Mike appeared, sitting bolt upright upon the box, with the lines grasped firmly in his hands, she did not suspect the truth, nor know that he too was angry for being thus compelled to go home before he saw the firemen.
Thinking him sober enough to be perfectly safe, George Douglas felt no fear, and, bowing to his new relatives, went back to comfort Theo, who as a matter of course cried a little when the carriage drove away. Worcester was left behind, and they were far out in the country ere a word was exchanged between Madam Conway and Maggie; for while the latter was pouting behind her veil, the former was wondering what possessed Mike to drive into every rut and over every stone.
"You, Mike!" she exclaimed at last, leaning from the window. "What ails you?"
"Nothing, as I'm a living man," answered Mike, halting so suddenly as to jerk the lady backwards and mash the crown of her bonnet.
Straightening herself up, and trying in vain to smooth the jam, Madam Conway continued: "In liquor, I know. I wish I had stayed home." But Mike loudly denied the charge, declaring he had spent the blessed night at a meeting of the "Sons," where they passed around nothing stronger than lemons and water, and if the horses chose to run off the track it wasn't his fault—he couldn't help it; and with the air of one deeply injured he again started forward, turning off ere long into a cross road, which, as they advanced, grew more stony and rough, while the farmhouses, as a general thing, presented a far less respectable appearance than those on the Hillsdale route.
"Mike, you villain!" ejaculated the lady, as they ran down into a ditch, and she sprang to one side to keep the carriage from going over.
But ere she had time for anything further, one of the axletrees snapped asunder, and to proceed further in their present condition was impossible. Alighting from the carriage, and setting her little feet upon the ground with a vengeance, Madam Conway first scolded Mike unmercifully for his carelessness, and next chided Maggie for manifesting no more concern.
"You'd as lief go to destruction as not, I do believe!" said she, looking carefully after the bandbox containing her purple satin.
"I'd rather go there first," answered Maggie, pointing to a brown old-fashioned farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away.
At first Madam Conway objected, saying she preferred sitting on the bank to intruding herself upon strangers; but as it was now noonday, and the warm September sun poured fiercely down upon her, she finally concluded to follow Maggie's advice, and gathering up her box and parasol started for the house, which, with its tansy patch on the right, and its single poplar tree in front, presented rather an uninviting appearance.
"Some vulgar creatures live there, I know. Just hear that old tin horn!" she exclaimed, as a blast, loud and shrill, blown by practiced lips, told the men in a distant field that dinner was ready.
A nearer approach disclosed to view a slanting-roofed farmhouse such as is often found in New England, with high, narrow windows, small panes of glass, and the most indispensable paper curtains of blue closely shading the windows of what was probably the "best room." In the apartment opposite, however, they were rolled up, so as to show the old-fashioned drapery of dimity, bordered with a netted fringe. Half a dozen broken pitchers and pots held geraniums, verbenas, and other plants, while the well-kept beds of hollyhocks, sunflowers, and poppies indicated a taste for flowers in someone. Everything about the house was faultlessly neat. The doorsill was scrubbed to a chalky white, while the uncovered floor wore the same polished hue.
All this Madam Conway saw at a glance, but it did not prevent her from holding high her aristocratic skirts, lest they should be contaminated, and when, in answer to her knock, an odd-looking, peculiarly dressed woman appeared, she uttered an exclamation of disgust, and, turning to Maggie, said, "You talk—I can't!"
But the woman did not stand at all upon ceremony. For the last ten minutes she had been watching the strangers as they toiled over the sandy road, and when sure they were coming there had retreated into her bedroom, donning a flaming red calico, which, guiltless of hoops, clung to her tenaciously, showing her form to good advantage, and rousing at once the risibility of Maggie. A black lace cap, ornamented with ribbons of the same fanciful color as the dress, adorned her head; and, with a dozen or more pins in her mouth, she now appeared, hooking her sleeve and smoothing down the black collar upon her neck.
In a few words Maggie explained to her their misfortune, and asked permission to tarry there until the carriage was repaired.
"Certing, certing," answered the woman, courtesying almost to the floor. "Walk right in, if you can git in. It's my cheese day, or I should have been cleared away sooner. Here, Betsy Jane, you have prinked long enough; come and hist the winders in t'other room, and wing 'em off, so the ladies can set in there out of this dirty place;" then turning to Madam Conway, who was industriously freeing her French kids from the sand they had accumulated during her walk, she continued, "Have some of my shoes to rest your feet a spell"; and diving into a recess or closet she brought forth a pair of slippers large enough to hold both of Madam Conway's feet at once.
With a haughty frown the lady declined the offer, while Maggie looked on in delight, pleased with an adventure which promised so much fun. After a moment Betsy Jane appeared, attired in a dress similar to that of her mother, for whose lank appearance she made ample amends, in the wonderful expansion of her robes, which, minus gather or fold at the bottom, set out like a miniature tent, upsetting at once the bandbox, which Madam Conway had placed upon a chair, and which, with its contents, rolled promiscuously over the floor!
"Betsy Jane! How can you wear them abominable things!" exclaimed the distressed woman, stooping to pick up the purple satin which had tumbled out.
A look from the more fashionable daughter, as with a swinging sweep she passed on into the parlor, silenced the mother on the subject of hoops, and thinking her guests must necessarily be thirsty after their walk she brought them a pitcher of water, asking if they'd "chuse it clear, or with a little ginger and molasses," at the same time calling to Betsy Jane to know if them windows was "wung" off!
The answer was in the affirmative, whereupon the ladies were invited to enter, which they did the more willingly as through the open door they had caught glimpses of what proved to be a very handsome Brussels carpet, which in that room seemed a little out of place, as did the sofa, and handsome haircloth rocking-chair. In this last Madam Conway seated herself, while Maggie reclined upon a lounge, wondering at the difference in the various articles of furniture, some of which were quite expensive, while others were of the most common kind.
"Who can they be? She looks like someone I have seen," said Maggie as Betsy Jane left the room. "I mean to ask their names;" but this her grandmother would not suffer. "It was too much like familiarity," she said, "and she did not believe in putting one's self on a level with such people."
Another loud blast from the horn was blown, for the bustling woman of the house was evidently getting uneasy, and ere long three or four men appeared, washing themselves from the spout of the pump, and wiping upon a coarse towel which hung upon a roller near the back door.
"I shan't eat at the same table with those creatures," said Madam Conway, feeling intuitively that she would be invited to dinner.
"Why, grandma, yes you will, if she asks you," answered Maggie. "Only think how kind they are to us—perfect strangers!"
What else she might have said was prevented by the entrance of Betsy Jane, who informed them that dinner was ready, and with a mental groan, as she thought how she was about to be martyred, Madam Conway followed her to the dining room, where a plain, substantial farmer's meal was spread. Standing at the head of the table, with her good-humored face all in a glow, was the hostess, who, pointing Madam Conway to? chair, said: "Now set right by, and make yourselves to hum. Mebby I or to have set the table over, and I guess I should if I had anything fit to eat. Be you fond of biled victuals?" and taking it for granted they were, she loaded both Madam Conway's and Maggie's plate with every variety of vegetables used in the preparation of the dish known everywhere as "boiled victuals."
By this time the men had ranged themselves in respectful silence upon the opposite side of the table, each stealing an admiring though modest glance at Maggie; for the masculine heart, whether it beats beneath a homespun frock or coat of finest cloth, is alike susceptible to glowing, youthful beauty like that of Maggie Miller. The head of the house was absent—"had gone to town with a load of wood," so his spouse informed the ladies, at the same time pouring out a cup of tea, which she said she had tried to make strong enough to bear up an egg. "Betsy Jane," she continued, casting a deprecating glance, first at the blue sugar bowl and then at her daughter, "what possessed you to put on this brown sugar, when I told you to get crush? Have some of the apple sass? It's new—made this morning. Dew have some," she continued, as Madam Conway shook her head. "Mebby it's better than it looks. Seem's ef you wan't goin' to eat nothin'. Betsy Jane, now you're up after the crush, fetch them china sassers for the cowcumbers. Like enough she'll eat some of them."
But, affecting a headache, Madam Conway declined everything save the green tea and a Boston cracker, which, at the first mention of headache, the distressed woman had brought her. Suddenly remembering Mike, who, having fixed the carriage, was fast asleep on a wheelbarrow under the woodshed, she exclaimed: "For the land of massy, if I hain't forgot that young gentleman! Go, William, and call him this minute. Are you sick at your stomach?" she asked, turning to Madam Conway, who at the thought of eating with her drunken coachman had uttered an exclamation of disgust. "Go, Betsy Jane, and fetch the camphire, quick!"
But Madam Conway did not need the camphor, and so she said, adding that Mike was better where he was. Mike thought so too, and refused to come, whereupon the woman insisted that he must. "There was room enough," she said, "and no kind of sense in Betsy Jane's taking up the hull side of the table with them rattans. She could set nearer the young lady."
"Certainly," answered Maggie, anxious to see how the "rattans" would manage to squeeze in between herself and the table-leg, as they would have to do if they came an inch nearer.
This feat could not be done, and in attempting it Betsy Jane upset Maggie's tea upon her handsome traveling dress, eliciting from her mother the exclamation, "Betsy Jane Douglas, you allus was the blunderin'est girl!"
This little accident diverted the woman's mind from Mike, while Madam Conway, starting at the name of Douglas, thought to herself: "Douglas!—Douglas! I did not suppose 'twas so common a name. But then it don't hurt George any, having these creatures bear his name."
Dinner being over, Madam Conway and Maggie returned to the parlor, where, while the former resumed her chair, the latter amused herself by examining the books and odd-looking daguerreotypes which lay upon the table.
"Oh, grandmother!" she almost screamed, bounding to that lady's side, "as I live, here's a picture of Theo and George Douglas taken together," and she held up a handsome casing before the astonished old lady, who, donning her golden spectacles in a twinkling, saw for herself that what Maggie said was true.
"They stole it!" she gasped. "We are in a den of thieves! Who knows what they'll take from my bandbox?" and she was about to leave the room when Maggie, whose quick mind saw farther ahead, bade her stop.
"I may discover something more," said she, and taking up a handsomely bound volume of Lamb, she turned to the fly-leaf, and read, "Jenny Douglas, from her brother George, Worcester, January 8."
It was plain to her now; but any mortification she might otherwise have experienced was lost in the one absorbing thought, "What will grandma say?"
"Grandmother," said she, showing the book, "don't you remember the mother of that girl called her Betsy Jane Douglas?"
"Yes, yes!" gasped Madam Conway, raising both hands, while an expression of deep, intense anxiety was visible upon her face.
"And don't you know, too," continued Maggie, "that George always seemed inclined to say as little as possible of his parents? Now, in this country it is not unusual for the sons of just such people as these to be among the most wealthy and respectable citizens."
"Maggie, Maggie!" hoarsely whispered Madam Conway, grasping Maggie's arm, "do you mean to insinuate—am I to understand that you believe that odious woman and hideous girl to be the mother and sister of George Douglas?"
"I haven't a doubt of it," answered Maggie. "'Twas the resemblance between Betsy Jane and George which I observed at first."
Out of her chair to the floor tumbled Madam Conway, fainting entirely away, while Maggie, stepping to the door, called for help.
"I mistrusted she was awful sick at dinner," said Mrs. Douglas, taking her hands from the dish-water, and running to the parlor. "I wish she'd smelt of the camphire, as I wanted her to do. Does she have such spells often?"
By this time Betsy Jane brought a basin of water, which she dashed in the face of the unconscious woman, who soon began to revive.
"Pennyr'yal tea'll settle her stomach quicker'n anything else," said Mrs. Douglas. "I'll clap a little right on the stove;" and, helping Madam Conway to the sofa, she left the room.
"There may possibly be a mistake, after all," thought Maggie. "I'll question the girl;" and, turning to Betsy Jane, she said, taking up the book which had before attracted her attention, "Is this 'Jenny Douglas' intended for you?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered the girl, coloring slightly. "Brother George calls me Jenny, because he thinks Betsy so old-fashioned."
An audible groan from the sofa, and Maggie continued, "Where does your brother live?"
"In Worcester, ma'am. He keeps a store there," answered Betsy, who was going to say more, when her mother, re-entering the room, took up the conversation by saying, "Was you tellin' 'em about George Washington? Waal, he's a boy no mother need to be ashamed on, though my old man sometimes says he's ashamed of us, we are so different. But, then, he orto consider the advantages he's had. We only brung him up till he was ten years old, and then an uncle he was named after took him and gin him a college schoolin', and then put him into his store in Worcester. Your head aches wus, don't it? Poor thing! The pennyr'yal will be steeped directly," she added, in an aside to Madam Conway, who had groaned aloud as if in pain. Then resuming her story, she continued, "Better'n six year ago Uncle George, who was a bachelor, died, leaving the heft of his property, seventy-five thousand dollars or more, to my son, who is now top of the heap in the store, and worth one hundred thousand dollars, I presume; some say two hundred thousand dollars; but that's the way some folks have of agitatin' things."
"Is he married?" asked Maggie, and Mrs. Douglas, mistaking the motive which prompted the question, answered: "Yes, dear, he is. If he wan't, I know of no darter-in-law I'd as soon have as you. I don't believe in finding fault with my son's wife; but there's a proud look in her face I don't like. This is her picter," and she passed to Maggie the daguerreotype of Theo.
"I've looked at it before," said Maggie; and the good woman proceeded: "I hain't seen her yet; but he's going to bring her to Charlton bime-by. He's a good boy, George is, free as water—gave me this carpet, the sofy and chair, and has paid Betsy Jane's schoolin' one winter at Leicester. But Betsy don't take to books much. She's more like me, her father says. They had a big party for George last night, but I wan't invited. Shouldn't 'a' gone if I had been; but for all that a body don't want to be slighted, even if they don't belong to the quality. If I'm good enough to be George's mother I'm good enough to go to a party with his wife. But she wan't to blame, and I shan't lay it up against her. I shall see her to-morrow, pretty likely, for Sam Babbit's wife and I are goin' down to the firemen's muster. You've heard on't, I suppose. The different engines are goin' to see which will shute water the highest over a 180-foot pole. I wouldn't miss goin' for anything, and of course I shall call on Theodoshy. I calkerlate to like her, and when they go to housekeepin' I've got a hull chest full of sheets and piller-biers and towels I'm goin' to give her, besides three or four bedquilts I pieced myself, two in herrin'-bone pattern, and one in risin' sun. I'll show 'em to you," and leaving the room, she soon returned with three patchwork quilts, wherein were all possible shades of color, red and yellow predominating, and in one the "rising sun" forming a huge centerpiece.
"Heavens!" faintly articulated Madam Conway, pressing her hands upon her head, which was supposed to be aching dreadfully. The thought of Theo reposing beneath the "risin' sun," or yet the "herrin'-bone," was intolerable; and looking beseechingly at Maggie, she whispered, "Do see if Mike is ready."
"If it's the carriage you mean," chimed in Mrs. Douglas, "it's been waiting quite a spell, but I thought you warn't fit to ride yet, so I didn't tell you."
Starting to her feet, Madam Conway's bonnet went on in a trice, and taking her shawl in her hand she walked outdoors, barely expressing her thanks to Mrs. Douglas, who, greatly distressed at her abrupt departure, ran for the herb tea, and taking the tin cup in her hand followed her guest to the carriage, urging her to "take a swaller just to keep from vomiting."
"She is better without it," said Maggie. "She seldom takes medicine," and politely expressing her gratitude to Mrs. Douglas for her kindness she bade Mike drive on.
"Some crazy critter just out of the asylum, I'll bet," said Mrs. Douglas, walking back to the house with her pennyroyal tea. "How queer she acted! but that girl's a lady, every inch of her, and so handsome too—I wonder who she is?"
"Don't you believe the old woman felt a little above us?" suggested Betsy Jane, who had more discernment than her mother.
"Like enough she did, though I never thought on't. But she needn't. I'm as good as she is, and I'll warrant as much thought on, where I'm known;" and quite satisfied with her own position, Mrs. Douglas went back to her dish-washing, while Betsy Jane stole away upstairs to try the experiment of arranging her hair after the fashion in which Margaret wore hers.
In the meantime Mike, perfectly sobered, had turned his horses' heads in the direction of Hillsdale, when Madam Conway called out, "To Worcester, Mike—to Worcester, as fast as you can drive."
"To Worcester! For what?" asked Maggie, and the excited woman answered: "To stop it! To forbid the banns! I should think you'd ask for what!"
"To stop it," repeated Maggie. "I'd like to see you stop it, when they've been married two months!"
"So they have! so they have!" said Madam Conway, wringing her hands in her despair, and crying out that a Conway should be so disgraced. "What shall I do? What shall I do?"
"Make the best of it, of course," answered Maggie. "I don't see that George is any worse for his parentage. He is evidently greatly respected in Worcester, where his family are undoubtedly known. He is educated and refined, if they are not. Theo loves him, and that is sufficient, unless I add that he has money."
"But not as much as I supposed," moaned Madam Conway. "Theo told me two hundred thousand dollars; but that woman said one. Oh, what will become of me! Give me the hartshorn, Maggie. I feel so faint!"
The hartshorn was handed her, but it could not quiet her distress. Her family pride was sorely wounded, and had Theo been dead she would hardly have felt worse than she did.
"How will she bear it when it comes to her knowledge, as it necessarily must? It will kill her, I know!" she exclaimed, after Maggie had exhausted all her powers of reasoning in vain; then, as she remembered the woman's avowed intention of visiting her daughter-in-law on the morrow, she felt that she must turn back; she must see Theo and break it to her gently, or the first sight of that odious creature, claiming her for a daughter, might be of incalculable injury.
"Stop, Mike," she was about to say; but ere the words passed her lips she reflected that to take Maggie back to Worcester was to throw her again in Henry Warner's way, and this she could not do. There was but one alternative. She could stop at the Charlton depot, not far distant, and wait for the downward train, while Mike drove Maggie home; and this she resolved to do. Mike was accordingly bidden to take her at once to the depot, which he did, while she explained to Maggie her reason for returning.
"Theo is much better alone, and George will not thank you for interfering," said Maggie, not at all pleased with her grandmother's proceedings.
But the old lady was determined. It was her duty, she said, to stand by Theo in trouble; and if a visit from that horrid creature wasn't trouble, she could not well define it.
"When will you come home?" asked Maggie.
"Not before to-morrow night. Now I have undertaken the matter, I intend to see it through," said Madam Conway, referring to the expected visit of Mrs. Douglas, senior.
But Mike did not thus understand it, and thinking her only object in turning back was to "see the doin's," as he designated the firemen's muster, he muttered long and loud about being thus sent home while his mistress went to see the fun.
In the meantime, on a hard settee, at the rather uncomfortable depot, Madam Conway awaited the arrival of the train, which came at last, and in a short time she found herself again in Worcester. Once in a carriage, and on her way to the "Bay State," she began to feel a little nervous, half wishing she had followed Maggie's advice, and left Theo alone. But it could not now be helped, and while trying to think what she should say to her astonished granddaughter she was set down at the door of the hotel, slightly bewildered and a good deal perplexed, a feeling which was by no means diminished when she learned that Mr. and Mrs. Douglas were both out of town.
"Where have they gone, and when will they return?" she gasped, untying her bonnet strings for easier respiration.
To these queries the clerk, replied that he believed Mr. Douglas had gone to Boston on business, that he might be home that night; at all events, he would probably return in the morning; she could find Mr. Warner, who would tell her all about it. "Shall I send for him?" he continued, as he saw the scowl upon her face.
"Certainly not," she answered; and taking the key, which had been left in his charge, she repaired to Theo's rooms, and sinking into a large easy-chair fanned herself furiously, wondering if they would return that night, and what they would say when they found her there. "But I don't care," she continued, speaking aloud and shaking her head very decidedly at the excited woman whose image was reflected by the mirror opposite, and who shook her head as decidedly in return. "George Douglas has deceived us shamefully, and I'll tell him so, too. I wish he'd come this minute!"
But George Douglas knew well what he was doing. Very gradually was he imparting to Theo a knowledge of his parents, and Theo, who really loved her husband, was learning to prize him for himself, and not for his family. Feeling certain that the firemen's muster would bring his mother to town, and knowing that Theo was not yet prepared to see her, he was greatly relieved at Madam Conway's sudden departure, and had himself purposely left home, with the intention of staying away until Friday night. This, however, Madam Conway did not know, and very impatiently she awaited his coming, until the lateness of the hour precluded the possibility of his arrival, and she retired to bed, but not to sleep, for the city was full of firemen, and one company, failing of finding lodgings elsewhere, had taken refuge in an empty carriage-shop near by. The hard, bare floor was not the most comfortable bed imaginable, and preferring the bright moonlight and open air they made the night hideous with their noisy shouts, which the watchmen tried in vain to hush. To sleep in that neighborhood was impossible, and all night long Madam Conway vibrated between her bed and the window, from which latter point she frowned wrathfully down upon the red coats below, who, scoffing alike at law and order as dispensed by the police, kept up their noisy revel, shouting lustily for "Chelsea, No. 4" and "Washington, No. 2," until the dawn of day.
"I wish to mercy I'd gone home!" sighed Madam Conway, as weak and faint she crept down to the breakfast table, doing but little justice to anything, and returning to her room pale, haggard, and weary.
Ere long, however, she became interested in watching the crowds of people who at an early hour filled the streets; and when at last the different fire companies of the State paraded the town, in a seemingly never-ending procession, she forgot in a measure her trouble, and drawing her chair to the window sat down to enjoy the brilliant scene, involuntarily nodding her head to the stirring music, as company after company passed. Up and down the street, far as the eye could reach, the sidewalks were crowded with men, women, and children, all eager to see the sight. There were people from the city and people from the country, the latter of whom, having anticipated the day for weeks and months, were now unquestionably enjoying it to the last degree.
Conspicuous among these was a middle-aged woman, who elicited remarks from all who beheld her, both from the peculiarity of her dress and the huge blue cotton umbrella she persisted in hoisting, to the great annoyance of those in whose faces it was thrust, and who forgot in a measure their vexation when they read the novel device it bore. Like many other people, who can sympathize with the good woman, she was always losing her umbrella, and at last, in self-defense, had embroidered upon the blue in letters of white:
"Steal me not, for fear of shame. For here you see my owner's name:
"CHARITY DOUGLAS."
As the lettering was small and not very distinct, it required a close observation to decipher it; but the plan was a successful one, nevertheless, and for four long years the blue umbrella had done good service to its mistress, shielding her alike from sunshine and from storm, and now in the crowded city it performed a double part, preventing those standing near from seeing, while at the same time it kept the dust from settling on the thick green veil and leghorn bonnet of its owner. At Betsy Jane's suggestion she wore a hoop to-day on Theo's account, and that she was painfully conscious of the fact was proved by the many anxious glances she cast at her chocolate-colored muslin, through the thin folds of which it was plainly visible.
"I wish I had left the pesky thing to hum," she thought, feeling greatly relieved when at last, as the crowd became greater, it was broken in several pieces and ceased to do its duty.
From her seat near the window Madam Conway caught sight of the umbrella as it swayed up and down amid the multitude, but she had no suspicion that she who bore it thus aloft had even a better right than herself to sit where she was sitting. In her excitement she had forgotten Mrs. Douglas' intended visit, to prepare Theo for which she had returned to Worcester, but it came to her at length, when, as the last fire company passed, the blue umbrella was closed, and the leghorn bonnet turned in the direction of the hotel. There was no mistaking the broad, good-humored face which looked so eagerly up at "George's window," and involuntarily Madam Conway glanced under the bed with the view of fleeing thither for refuge!
"What shall I do?" she cried, as she heard the umbrella on the stairs. "I'll lock her out," she continued; and in an instant the key was in her pocket, while, trembling in every limb, she awaited the result.
Nearer and nearer the footsteps came; there was a knock upon the door, succeeded by a louder one, and then, as both these failed to elicit a response, the handle of the umbrella was vigorously applied. But all in vain, and Madam Conway heard the discomfited outsider say, "They told me Theodoshy's grandmarm was here, but I guess she's in the street. I'll come agin bime-by," and Mrs. Douglas, senior, walked disconsolately down the stairs, while Madam Conway thought it doubtful whether she gained access to the room that day, come as often as she might.
Not long after, the gong sounded for dinner, and unlocking the door Madam Conway was about descending to the dining room, when the thought burst upon her: "What if she should be at the table! It's just like her."
The very idea was overwhelming, taking from her at once all desire for dinner; and returning to her room she tried, by looking over the books and examining the carpet, to forget how hungry and faint she was. Whether she would have succeeded is doubtful, had not an hour or two later brought another knock from the umbrella, and driven all thoughts of eating from her mind. In grim silence she waited until her tormentor was gone, and then wondering if it was not time for the train she consulted her watch. But alas! 'twas only four; the cars did not leave until six; and so another weary hour went by. At the end of that time, however, thinking the depot preferable to being a prisoner there, she resolved to go; and leaving the key with the clerk, she called a carriage and was soon on her way to the cars.
As she approached the depot she observed an immense crowd of people gathered together, among which the red coats of the firemen were conspicuous. A fight was evidently in progress, and as the horses began to grow restive she begged of the driver to let her alight, saying she could easily walk the remainder of the way. Scarcely, however, was she on terra-firma when the yelling crowd made a precipitate rush towards her, and in much alarm she climbed for safety into an empty buggy, whereupon the horse, equally alarmed, began to rear, and without pausing an instant the terrified lady sprang out on the side opposite to that by which she had entered, catching her dress upon the seat, and tearing half the gathers from the waist.
"Heaven help me!" she cried, picking herself up, and beginning to wish she had never troubled herself with Theo's mother-in-law.
To reach the depot was now her great object, and, as the two belligerent parties occupied the front, she thought to effect an entrance at the rear. But the doors were locked, and as she turned the corner of the building she suddenly found herself in the thickest of the fight. To advance was impossible, to turn back equally so, and while meditating some means of escape she lost her footing and fell across a wheelbarrow which stood upon the platform, crumpling her bonnet, and scratching her face upon a nail which protruded from the vehicle. Nearer dead than alive, she made her way at last into the depot, and from thence into the cars, where, sinking into a seat, and drawing her shawl closely around her, the better to conceal the sad condition of her dress, she indulged in meditations not wholly complimentary to firemen in general and her late comrades in particular.
For half an hour she waited impatiently, but though the cars were filling rapidly there were no indications of starting; and it was almost seven ere the long and heavily loaded train moved slowly from the depot. About fifteen minutes previous to their departure, as Madam Conway was looking ruefully out upon the multitude, she was horrified at seeing directly beneath her window the veritable woman from whom, through the entire day, she had been hiding. Involuntarily she glanced at the vacant seat in front of her, which, as she feared, was soon occupied by Mrs. Douglas and her companion, who, as Madam Conway divined, was "Sam Babbit's wife."
Trembling nervously lest she should be discovered, she drew her veil closely over her face, keeping very quiet, and looking intently from the window into the gathering darkness without. But her fears were groundless, for Mrs. Douglas had no suspicion that the crumpled bonnet and sorry figure, sitting so disconsolately in the corner, was the same which but the day before had honored her with a call. She was in high spirits, having had, as she informed her neighbor, "a tip-top time." On one point, however, she was disappointed. She meant as much as could be to have seen "Theodoshy," but she "wan't to hum." "Her grandmarm was in town," said she, "but if she was in the room she must have been asleep, or dreadful deaf, for I pounded with all my might. I'm sorry, for I'd like to scrape acquaintance with her, bein' we're connected."
An audible groan came from beneath the thick brown veil, whereupon both ladies turned their heads. But the indignant woman made no sign; and, in a whisper loud enough for Madam Conway to hear, Mrs. Douglas said, "Some Irish critter in liquor, I presume. Look at her jammed bonnet."
This remark drew from Mrs. Babbit a very close inspection of the veiled figure, who, smothering her wrath, felt greatly relieved when the train started and prevented her from hearing anything more. At the next station, however, Mrs. Douglas showed her companion a crochet collar, which she had purchased for two shillings, and which, she said, was almost exactly like the one worn by the woman who stopped at her house the day before.
Leaning forward, Madam Conway glanced contemptuously at the coarse knit thing, which bore about the same resemblance to her own handsome collar as cambric does to satin.
"Vulgar, ignorant creatures!" she muttered, while Mrs. Babbit, after duly praising the collar, proceeded to make some inquiries concerning the strange lady who had shared Mrs. Douglas' hospitality.
"I've no idee who she was," said Mrs. Douglas; "but I think it's purty likely she was some crazy critter they was takin' to the hospital."
Another groan from beneath the brown veil, and turning around the kind-hearted Mrs. Douglas asked if she was sick, adding in an aside, as there came no answer, "Been fightin', I'll warrant!"
Fortunately for Madam Conway, the cars moved on, and when they stopped again, to her great relief, the owner of the blue umbrella, together with "Sam Babbit's wife," alighted, and amid the crowd assembled on the platform she recognized Betsy Jane, who had come down to meet her mother. The remainder of the way seemed tedious enough, for the train moved but slowly, and it was near ten o'clock ere they reached the Hillsdale station, where, to her great delight, Madam Conway found Margaret awaiting her, together with Arthur Carrollton. The moment she saw the former, who came eagerly forward to meet her, the weary, worn-out woman burst into tears; but at the sight of Mr. Carrollton she forced them back, saying, in reply to Maggie's inquiries, that Theo was not at home, and that she had spent a dreadful day, and been knocked down in a fight at the depot, in proof of which she pointed to her torn dress, her crumpled bonnet, and scratched face. Maggie laughed aloud in spite of herself, and though Mr. Carrollton's eyes were several times turned reprovingly upon her she continued to laugh at intervals at the sorry, forlorn appearance presented by her grandmother, who for several days was confined to her bed from the combined effects of fasting, fright, firemen's muster, and her late encounter with Mrs. Douglas, senior!
