CHAPTER XV.
ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE.
Mr. Carrollton had returned from Boston on Thursday afternoon, and, finding them all gone from the hotel, had come on to Hillsdale on the evening train, surprising Maggie as she sat in the parlor alone, wishing herself in Worcester, or in some place where it was not as lonely as there. With his presence the loneliness disappeared, and in making his tea and listening to his agreeable conversation she forgot everything, until, observing that she looked weary, he said: "Maggie, I would willingly talk to you all night, were it not for the bad effect it would have on you to-morrow. You must go to bed now," and he showed her his watch, which pointed to the hour of midnight.
Exceedingly mortified, Maggie was leaving the room, when, noticing her evident chagrin, Mr. Carrollton came to her side, and laying his hand very respectfully on hers, said kindly: "It is my fault, Maggie, keeping you up so late, and I only send you away now because those eyes are growing heavy, and I know that you need rest. Good-night to you, and pleasant dreams."
He went with her to the door, watching her until she disappeared up the stairs; then, half wishing he had not sent her from him, he too sought his chamber; but not to sleep, for Maggie, though absent, was with him still in fancy. For more than a year he had been haunted by a bright, sunshiny face, whose owner embodied the dashing, independent spirit and softer qualities which made Maggie Miller so attractive. Of this face he had often thought, wondering if the real would equal the ideal, and now that he had met with her, had looked into her truthful eyes, had gazed upon her sunny face, which mirrored faithfully every thought and feeling, he was more than satisfied, and to love that beautiful girl seemed to him an easy matter. She was so childlike, so artless, so different from anyone whom he had ever known, that he was interested in her at once. But Arthur Carrollton never did a thing precipitately. She might have many glaring faults; he must see her more, must know her better, ere he lavished upon her the love whose deep fountains had never yet been stirred.
After this manner he reasoned as he walked up and down his chamber, while Maggie, on her sleepless pillow, was thinking, too, of him, wondering if she did hate him as much as she intended, and if Henry would be offended at her sitting up with him until after twelve o'clock.
It was nearly half-past nine when Maggie awoke next morning, and making a hasty toilet she descended to the dining room, where she found Mr. Carrollton awaiting her. He had been up a long time; but when Anna Jeffrey, blessed with an uncommon appetite, fretted at the delay of breakfast, and suggested calling Margaret, he objected, saying she needed rest, and must not be disturbed. So, in something of a pet, the young lady breakfasted alone with her aunt, Mr. Carrollton preferring to wait for Maggie.
"I am sorry I kept you waiting," said Maggie, seating herself at the table and continuing to apologize for her tardiness.
But Mr. Carrollton felt more than repaid by having her thus alone with him, and many were the admiring glances he cast toward her, as, with her shining hair, her happy face, her tasteful morning gown of pink, and her beautiful white hands which handled so gracefully the silver coffee-urn, she made a living, glowing picture such as any man might delight to look upon. Breakfast being over, Mr. Carrollton proposed a ride, and as Anna Jeffrey at that moment entered the parlor he invited her to accompany them. There was a shadow on Maggie's brow as she left the room to dress, a shadow which had not wholly disappeared when she returned; and, observing this, Mr. Carrollton said, "Were I to consult my own wishes, Maggie, I should leave Miss Jeffrey at home; but she is a poor girl whose enjoyments are far less than ours, consequently I invited her for this once, knowing how fond she is of riding."
"How thoughtful you are of other people's happiness!" said Maggie, the shadow leaving her brow at once.
"I am glad that wrinkle has gone, at all events," returned Mr. Carrollton laughingly, and laying his hand upon her forehead he continued: "Were you my sister Helen I should probably kiss you for having so soon got over your pet; but as you are Maggie Miller, I dare not," and he looked earnestly at her, to see if he had spoken the truth.
Coloring crimson, as it became the affianced bride of Henry Warner to do, Maggie turned away, thinking Helen must be a happy girl, and half wishing she too were Arthur Carrollton's sister. It was a long, delightful excursion they took, and Maggie, when she saw how Anna Jeffrey enjoyed it, did not altogether regret her presence. On their way home she proposed calling upon Hagar, whom she had not seen for "three whole days."
"And who, pray, is Hagar?" asked Mr. Carrollton; and Maggie replied, "She is my old nurse—a strange, crazy creature, whom they say I somewhat resemble."
By this time they were near the cottage, in the door of which old
Hagar was standing, with her white hair falling round her face.
"I see by your looks you don't care to call, but I shall," said Maggie; and, bounding from her saddle, she ran up to Hagar, pressing her hand and whispering that it would soon be time to hear from Henry.
"Kissed her, I do believe!" said Anna Jeffrey. "She must have admirable taste!"
Mr. Carrollton said nothing, but with a half-comical, half-displeased expression he watched the interview between that weird old woman and the fair young girl, little suspecting how nearly they were allied.
"Why didn't you come and speak to her?" said Maggie, as he alighted to assist her in again mounting Gritty. "She used to see you in England, when you were a baby, and if you won't be angry I'll tell you what she said. It was that you were the crossest, ugliest young one she ever saw! There, there; don't set me down so hard!" and the saucy eyes looked mischievously at the proud Englishman, who, truth to say, did place her in the saddle with a little more force than was at all necessary.
Not that he was angry. He was only annoyed at what he considered Maggie's undue familiarity with a person like Hagar, but he wisely forbore making any comments in Anna Jeffrey's presence, except, indeed, to laugh heartily at Hagar's complimentary description of himself when a baby. Arrived at home, and alone again with Maggie, he found her so very good-natured and agreeable that he could not chide her for anything, and Hagar was for a time forgotten.
That evening, as the reader knows, they went together to the depot, where they waited four long hours, but not impatiently; for sitting there in the moonlight, with the winding Chicopee full in view, and Margaret Miller at his side, Arthur Carrollton forgot the lapse of time, especially when Maggie, thinking it no harm, gave a most ludicrous description of her call upon Mrs. Douglas, senior, and of her grandmother's distress at finding herself so nearly connected with what she termed "a low, vulgar family."
Arthur Carrollton was very proud, and had Theo been his sister he might to some extent have shared in Madam Conway's chagrin; and so he said to Maggie, at the same time fully agreeing with her that George Douglas was a refined, agreeable man, and as such entitled to respect. Still, had Theo known of his parentage, he said, it would probably have made some difference; but now that it could not be helped it was wise to make the best of it.
These words were little heeded then by Maggie, but with most painful distinctness they recurred to her in the after time, when, humbled in the very dust, she had no hope that the highborn, haughty Carrollton would stoop to a child of Hagar Warren! But no shadow of the dark future was over her now, and very eagerly she drank in every word and look of Arthur Carrollton, who, all unconsciously, was trampling on another's rights and gradually weakening the fancied love she bore for Henry Warner.
The arrival of the train brought their pleasant conversation to a close, and for a day or two Maggie's time was wholly occupied with her grandmother, to whom she frankly acknowledged having told Mr. Carrollton of Mrs. Douglas and her daughter Betsy Jane. The fact that he knew of her disgrace and did not despise her was of great benefit to Madam Conway, and after a few days she resumed her usual spirits, and actually told of the remarks made by Mrs. Douglas concerning herself and the "fight" she had been in! As time passed on she became reconciled to the Douglases, having, as she thought, some well-founded reasons for believing that for Theo's disgrace Maggie would make amends by marrying Mr. Carrollton, whose attentions each day became more and more marked, and were not apparently altogether disagreeable to Maggie. On the contrary, his presence at Hillsdale was productive of much pleasure to her, as well as a little annoyance.
From the first he seemed to exercise over her an influence she could not well resist—a power to make her do whatever he willed that she should do; and though she sometimes rebelled she was pretty sure in the end to yield the contest, and submit to one who was evidently the ruling spirit. As yet nothing had been said of the hair ornament which, out of compliment to him, her grandmother wore every morning in her collar, but at last one day Madam Conway spoke of it herself, asking if it were, as she had supposed, his grandmother's hair.
"Why, no," he answered involuntarily; "it is a lock Maggie sent me in that wonderful daguerreotype!"
"The stupid thing!" thought Maggie, while her eyes fairly danced with merriment as she anticipated the question she fancied was sure to follow, but did not.
One glance at her tell-tale face was sufficient for Madam Conway. In her whole household there was but one head with locks as white as that, and whatever her thoughts might have been, she said nothing, but from that day forth Hagar's hair was never again seen ornamenting her person! That afternoon Mr. Carrollton and Maggie went out to ride, and in the course of their conversation he referred to the pin, asking whose hair it was, and seeming much amused when told that it was Hagar's.
"But why did you not tell her when it first came?" he said; and Maggie answered: "Oh, it was such fun to see her sporting Hagar's hair, when she is so proud! It didn't hurt her either, for Hagar is as good as anybody. I don't believe in making such a difference because one person chances to be richer than another."
"Neither do I," returned Mr. Carrollton. "I would not esteem a person for wealth alone, but there are points of difference which should receive consideration. For instance, this old Hagar may be well enough in her way, but suppose she were nearly connected with you—your grandmother, if you like—it would certainly make some difference in your position. You would not be Maggie Miller, and I—"
"Wouldn't ride with me, I dare say," interrupted Maggie; to which he replied, "I presume not," adding, as he saw slight indications of pouting, "And therefore I am glad you are Maggie Miller, and not Hagar's grandchild."
Mentally pronouncing him a "proud, hateful thing," Maggie rode on a while in silence. But Mr. Carrollton knew well how to manage her, and he too was silent until Maggie, who could never refrain from talking any length of time, forgot herself and began chatting away as gayly as before. During their excursion they came near to the gorge of Henry Warner memory, and Maggie, who had never quite forgiven Mr. Carrollton for criticising her horsemanship, resolved to show him what she could do. The signal was accordingly given to Gritty, and ere her companion was aware of her intention she was tearing over the ground at a speed he could hardly equal. The ravine was just on the border of the wood, and without pausing for an instant Gritty leaped across it, landing safely on the other side, where he stopped, while half fearfully, half exultingly, Maggie looked back to see what Mr. Carrollton would do. At first he fancied Gritty beyond her control, and when he saw her directly over the deep chasm he shuddered, involuntarily stretching out his arms to save her; but the look she gave him as she turned around convinced him that the risk she had run was done on purpose. Still he had no intention of following her, for he feared his horse's ability as well as his own to clear that pass.
"Why don't you jump? Are you afraid?" and Maggie's eyes looked archly out from beneath her tasteful riding cap.
For half a moment he felt tempted to join her, but his better judgment came to his aid, and he answered: "Yes, Maggie, I am afraid, having never tried such an experiment. But I wish to be with you in some way, and as I cannot come to you I ask you to come to me. You seem accustomed to the leap!"
He did not praise her. Nay, she fancied there was more of censure in the tones of his voice; at all events, he had asked her rather commandingly to return, and she "wouldn't do it." For a moment she made no reply, and he said again, "Maggie, will you come?" then half playfully, half reproachfully, she made answer, "A gallant Englishman indeed! willing I should risk my neck where you dare not venture yours. No, I shan't try the leap again to-day, I don't feel like it; but I'll cross the long bridge half a mile from here—good-by;" and fully expecting him to meet her, she galloped off, riding ere long quite slowly, "so he'd have a nice long time to wait for her!"
How, then, was she disappointed, when, on reaching the bridge, there was nowhere a trace of him to be seen, neither could she hear the sound of his horse's footsteps, though she listened long and anxiously!
"He is certainly the most provoking man I ever saw!" she exclaimed, half crying with vexation. "Henry wouldn't have served me so, and I'm glad I was engaged to him before I saw this hateful Carrollton, for grandma might possibly have coaxed me into marrying him, and then wouldn't Mr. Dog and Mrs. Cat have led a stormy life! No, we wouldn't," she continued; "I should in time get accustomed to minding him, and then I think he'd be splendid, though no better than Henry. I wonder if Hagar has a letter for me!" and, chirruping to Gritty, she soon stood at the door of the cabin.
"Have you two been quarreling?" asked Hagar, noticing Maggie's flushed cheeks. "Mr. Carrollton passed here twenty minutes or more ago, looking mighty sober, and here you are with your face as red—What has happened?"
"Nothing," answered Maggie, a little testily, "only he's the meanest man! Wouldn't follow me when I leaped the gorge, and I know he could if he had tried."
"Showed his good sense," interrupted Hagar, adding that Maggie mustn't think every man was going to risk his neck for her.
"I don't think so, of course," returned Maggie; "but he might act better—almost commanded me to come back and join him, as though I was a little child; but I wouldn't do it. I told him I'd go down to the long bridge and cross, expecting, of course, he'd meet me there; and instead of that he has gone off home. How did he know what accident would befall me?"
"Accident!" repeated Hagar; "accident befall you, who know every crook and turn of these woods so much better than he does!"
"Well, anyway, he might have waited for me," returned Maggie. "I don't believe he'd care if I were to get killed. I mean to scare him and see;" and, springing from Gritty's back, she gave a peculiar whistling sound, at which the pony bounded away towards home, while she followed Hagar into the cottage, where a letter from Henry awaited her.
They were to sail for Cuba on the 15th of October, and he now wrote asking if Maggie would go without her grandmother's consent. But, though irresolute when he before broached the subject, Maggie was decided now. She would not run away; and so she said to Hagar, to whom she confided the whole affair.
"I do not think it would be right to elope," she said. "In three years more I shall be twenty-one, and free to do as I like; and if grandma will not let me marry Henry now, he must wait. I can't run away. Rose would not approve of it, I'm sure, and I almost know Mr. Carrollton would not."
"I can't see how his' approving or not approving can affect you," said Hagar; then bending down, so that her wild eyes looked full in Maggie's eyes, she said, "Are you beginning to like this Englishman?"
"Why, no, I guess I aint," answered Maggie, coloring slightly. "I dislike him dreadfully, he's so proud. Why, he did the same as to say that if I were your grandchild he would not ride with me!"
"My grandchild, Maggie Miller!—my grandchild!" shrieked Hagar. "What put that into his head?"
Thinking her emotion caused by anger at Arthur Carrollton, Maggie mentally chided herself for having inadvertently said what she did, while at the same time she tried to soothe old Hagar, who rocked to and fro, as was her custom when her "crazy spells" were on. Growing a little more composed, she said at last, "Marry Henry Warner, by all means, Maggie; he aint as proud as Carrollton—he would not care as much if he knew it."
"Knew what?" asked Maggie; and, remembering herself in time, Hagar answered adroitly: "Knew of your promise to let me live with you. You remember it, don't you?" and she looked wistfully towards Maggie, who, far more intent upon something else, answered: "Yes, I remember. But hush! don't I hear horses' feet coming rapidly through the woods?" and, running to the window, she saw Mr. Carrollton mounted upon Gritty, and riding furiously towards the house.
"You go out, Hagar, and see if he is looking for me," whispered
Maggie, stepping back, so he could not see.
"Henry Warner must snare the bird quick, or he will lose it," muttered Hagar, as she walked to the door, where, evidently much excited, Mr. Carrollton asked if she knew aught of Miss Miller, and why Gritty had come home alone. "It is such an unusual occurrence," said he, "that we felt alarmed, and I have come in quest of her."
From her post near the window Maggie could plainly see his face, which was very pale, and expressive of much concern, while his voice, she fancied, trembled as he spoke her name.
"He does care," she thought; woman's pride was satisfied, and ere
Hagar could reply she ran out, saying laughingly: "And so you thought
maybe I was killed, but I'm not. I concluded to walk home and let
Gritty go on in advance. I did not mean to frighten grandma."
"She was not as much alarmed as myself," said Mr. Carrollton, the troubled expression of his countenance changing at once. "You do not know how anxious I was when I saw Gritty come riderless to the door, nor yet how relieved I am in finding you thus unharmed."
Maggie knew she did not deserve this, and blushing like a guilty child she offered no resistance when he lifted her into the saddle gently—tenderly—as if she had indeed escaped from some great danger.
"It is time you were home," said he, and throwing the bridle across his arm he rested his hand upon the saddle and walked slowly by her side.
All his fancied coldness was forgotten; neither was the leap nor yet the bridge once mentioned, for he was only too happy in having her back alive, while she was doubting the propriety of an experiment which, in the turn matters had taken, seemed to involve deception. Observing at last that he occasionally pressed his hand upon his side, she asked the cause, and was told that he had formerly been subject to a pain in his side, which excitement or fright greatly augmented. "I hoped I was free from it," he said, "but the sight of Gritty dashing up to the door without you brought on a slight attack; for I knew if you were harmed the fault was mine for having rather unceremoniously deserted you."
This was more than Maggie could endure in silence. The frank ingenuousness of her nature prevailed, and turning towards him her dark, beautiful eyes, in which tears were shining, she said: "Forgive me, Mr. Carrollton. I sent Gritty home on purpose to see if you would be annoyed, for I felt vexed because you would not humor my whim and meet me at the bridge. I am sorry I caused you any uneasiness," she continued, as she saw a shadow flit over his face. "Will you forgive me?"
Arthur Carrollton could not resist the pleading of those lustrous eyes, nor yet refuse to take the ungloved hand she offered him; and if, in token of reconciliation, he did press it a little more fervently than Henry Warner would have thought at all necessary, he only did what, under the circumstances, it was very natural he should do. From the first Maggie Miller had been a puzzle to Arthur Carrollton; but he was fast learning to read her—was beginning to understand how perfectly artless she was—and this little incident increased, rather than diminished, his admiration.
"I will forgive you, Maggie," he said, "on one condition. You must promise never again to experiment with my feelings in a similar manner."
The promise was readily given, and then they proceeded on as leisurely as if at home there was no anxious grandmother vibrating between her high-backed chair and the piazza, nor yet an Anna Jeffrey watching them enviously as they came slowly up the road.
That night there came to Mr. Carrollton a letter from Montreal, saying his immediate presence was necessary there, on a business matter of some importance; and he accordingly decided to go on the morrow.
"When may we expect you back?" asked Madam Conway, as in the morning he was preparing for his journey.
"It will, perhaps, be two months at least, before I return," said he, adding that there was a possibility of his being obliged to go immediately to England.
In the recess of the window Maggie was standing, thinking how lonely the house would be without him, and wishing there was no such thing as parting from those she liked—even as little as she did Arthur Carrollton.
"I won't let him know that I care, though," she thought, and forcing a smile to her face she was about turning to bid him good-by, when she heard him tell her grandmother of the possibility there was that he would be obliged to go directly to England from Montreal.
"Then I may never see him again," she thought; and the tears burst forth involuntarily at the idea of parting with him forever.
Faster and faster they came, until at last, fearing lest he should see them, she ran away upstairs, and, mounting to the roof, sat down behind the chimney, where, herself unobserved, she could watch him far up the road. From the half-closed door of her chamber Anna Jeffrey had seen Maggie stealing up the tower stairs; had seen, too, that she was weeping, and, suspecting the cause, she went quietly down to the parlor to hear what Arthur Carrollton would say. The carriage was waiting, his trunk was in its place, his hat was in his hand; to Madam Conway he said good-by, to Anna Jeffrey too; and still he lingered, looking wistfully round in quest of something which evidently was not there.
"Where's Margaret?" he asked at last, and Madam Conway answered:
"Surely, where can she be? Have you seen her, Anna?"
"I saw her on the stairs some time ago," said Anna, adding that possibly she had gone to see Hagar, as she usually visited her at this hour.
A shade of disappointment passed over Mr. Carrollton's face as he replied, "Tell her I am sorry she thinks more of Hagar than of me."
The next moment he was gone, and leaning against the chimney Maggie watched with tearful eyes the carriage as it wound up the grassy road. On the brow of the hill, just before it would disappear from sight, it suddenly stopped. Something was the matter with the harness, and while John was busy adjusting it Mr. Carrollton leaned from the window, and, looking back, started involuntarily as he caught sight of the figure so clearly defined upon the housetop. A slight suspicion of the truth came upon him, and kissing his hand he waved it gracefully towards her. Maggie's handkerchief was wet with tears, but she shook it out in the morning breeze, and sent to Arthur Carrollton, as she thought, her last good-by.
Fearing lest her grandmother should see her swollen eyes, she stole down the stairs, and taking her shawl and bonnet from the table in the hall ran off into the woods, going to a pleasant, mossy bank not far from Hagar's cottage, where she had more than once sat with Arthur Carrollton, and where she fancied she would never sit with him again.
"I don't believe it's for him that I am crying," she thought, as she tried in vain to stay her tears; "I always intended to hate him, and I almost know I do; I'm only feeling badly because I won't run away, and Henry and Rose will go without me so soon!" And fully satisfied at having discovered the real cause of her grief, she laid her head upon the bright autumn grass and wept bitterly, holding her breath, and listening intently as she heard in the distance the sound of the engine which was bearing Mr. Carrollton away.
It did not occur to her that he could not yet have reached the depot, and as she knew nothing of a change in the time of the trains she was taken wholly by surprise when, fifteen minutes later, a manly form bent over her, as she lay upon the bank, and a voice, earnest and thrilling in tones, murmured softly, "Maggie, are those tears for me?"
When about halfway to the station Mr. Carrollton had heard of the change of time, and knowing he should not be in season had turned back with the intention of waiting for the next train, which would pass in a few hours. Learning that Maggie was in the woods, he had started in quest of her, going naturally to the mossy bank, where, as we have seen, he found her weeping on the grass. She was weeping for him—he was sure of that. He was not indifferent to her, as he had sometimes feared, and for an instant he felt tempted to take her in his arms and tell her how dear she was to him.
"I will speak to her first," he thought, and so he asked if the tears were for him.
Inexpressibly astonished and mortified at having him see her thus, Maggie started to her feet, while angry words at being thus intruded upon trembled on her lips. But winding his arm around her, Mr. Carrollton drew her to his side, explaining to her in a few words how he came to be there, and continuing: "I do not regret the delay, if by its means I have discovered what I very much wish to know. Maggie, do you care for me? Were you weeping because I had left you?"
He drew her very closely to him—looking anxiously into her face, which she covered with her hands. She knew he was in earnest, and the knowledge that he loved her thrilled her for an instant with indescribable happiness. A moment, however, and thoughts of her engagement with another flashed upon her. "She must not sit there thus with Arthur Carrollton—she would be true to Henry," and with mingled feelings of sorrow, regret, and anger—though why she should experience either she did not then understand—she drew herself from him; and when he said again: "Will Maggie answer? Are those tears for me?" she replied petulantly: "No; can't a body cry without being bothered for a reason? I came down here to be alone!"
"I did not mean to intrude, and I beg your pardon for having done so," said Mr. Carrollton sadly, adding, as Maggie made no reply: "I expected a different answer, Maggie. I almost hoped you liked me, and I believe now that you do."
In Maggie's bosom there was a fierce struggle of feeling. She did like Arthur Carrollton—and she thought she liked Henry Warner—at all events she was engaged to him, and half angry at the former for having disturbed her, and still more angry at herself for being thus disturbed, she exclaimed, as he again placed his arm around her: "Leave me alone, Mr. Carrollton. I don't like you. I don't like anybody!" and gathering up her shawl, which lay upon the grass, she ran away to Hagar's cabin, hoping he would follow her. But he did not. It was his first attempt at love-making, and very much disheartened he walked slowly back to the house; and while Maggie, from Hagar's door, was looking to see if he were coming, he, from the parlor window, was watching, too, for her, with a shadow on his brow and a load upon his heart. Madam Conway knew that something was wrong, but it was in vain that she sought an explanation. Mr. Carrollton kept his own secret; and consoling herself with his volunteered assurance that in case it became necessary for him to return to England he should, before embarking, visit Hillsdale, she bade him a second adieu.
In the meantime Maggie, having given up all hopes of again seeing Mr. Carrollton, was waiting impatiently the coming of Hagar, who was absent, having, as Maggie readily conjectured, gone to Richland. It was long past noon when she returned, and by that time the stains had disappeared from Maggie's face, which looked nearly as bright as ever. Still, it was with far less eagerness than usual that she took from Hagar's hand the expected letter from Henry. It was a long, affectionate epistle, urging her once more to accompany him, and saying if she still refused she must let him know immediately, as they were intending to start for New York in a few days.
"I can't go," said Maggie; "it would not be right." And going to the time-worn desk, where, since her secret correspondence, she had kept materials for writing, she wrote to Henry a letter telling him she felt badly to disappoint him, but she deemed it much wiser to defer their marriage until her grandmother felt differently, or at least until she was at an age to act for herself. This being done, she went slowly back to the house, which to her seemed desolate indeed. Her grandmother saw readily that something was the matter, and, rightly guessing the cause, she forebore questioning her, neither did she once that day mention Mr. Carrollton, although Anna Jeffrey did, telling her what he had said about her thinking more of Hagar than of himself, and giving as her opinion that he was much displeased with Maggie for her rudeness in running away.
"Nobody cares for his displeasure," answered Maggie, greatly vexed at
Anna, who took especial delight in annoying her.
Thus a week went by, when one evening, as Madam Conway and Maggie sat together in the parlor, they were surprised by the sudden appearance of Henry Warner. He had accompanied his aunt and sister to New York, where they were to remain for a few days, and then impelled by a strong desire to see Margaret once more he had come with the vain hope that at the last hour she would consent to fly with him, or her grandmother consent to give her up. All the afternoon he had been at Hagar's cottage waiting for Maggie, and at length determining to see her he had ventured to the house. With a scowling frown Madam Conway looked at him through her glasses, while Maggie, half joyfully, half fearfully, went forward to meet him. In a few words he explained why he was there, and then again asked of Madam Conway if Margaret could go.
"I do not believe she cares to go," thought Madam Conway, as she glanced at Maggie's face; but she did not say so, lest she should awaken within the young girl a feeling of opposition.
She had watched Maggie closely, and felt sure that her affection for Henry Warner was neither deep nor lasting. Arthur Carrollton's presence had done much towards weakening it, and a few months more would suffice to wear it away entirely. Still, from what had passed, she fancied that opposition alone would only make the matter worse by rousing Maggie at once. She knew far more of human nature than either of the young people before her; and after a little reflection she suggested that Henry should leave Maggie with her for a year, during which time no communication whatever should pass between them, while she would promise faithfully not to influence Margaret either way.
"If at the end of the year," said she, "you both retain for each other the feelings you have now, I will no longer object to the marriage, but will make the best of it."
At first Henry spurned the proposition, and when he saw that Margaret thought well of it he reproached her with a want of feeling, saying she did not love him as she had once done.
"I shall not forget you, Henry," said Maggie, coming to his side and taking his hand in hers, "neither will you forget me; and when the year has passed away, only think how much pleasanter it will be for us to be married here at home, with grandma's blessing on our union!"
"If I only knew you would prove true!" said Henry, who missed something in Maggie's manner.
"I do mean to prove true," she answered sadly, though at that moment another face, another form, stood between her and Henry Warner, who, knowing that Madam Conway would not suffer her to go with him on any terms, concluded at last to make a virtue of necessity, and accordingly expressed his willingness to wait, provided Margaret were allowed to write occasionally either to himself or Rose.
But to this Madam Conway would not consent. She wished the test to be perfect, she said, and unless he accepted her terms he must give Maggie up, at once and forever.
As there seemed no alternative, Henry rather ungraciously yielded the point, promising to leave Maggie free for a year, while she too promised not to write either to him or to Rose, except with her grandmother's consent. Maggie Miller's word once passed, Madam Conway knew it would not be broken, and she unhesitatingly left the young people together while they said their parting words. A message of love from Maggie to Rose—a hundred protestations of eternal fidelity, and then they parted; Henry, sad and disappointed, slowly wending his way back to the spot where Hagar impatiently awaited his coming, while Maggie, leaning from her chamber window, and listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps, brushed away a tear, wondering the while why it was that she felt so relieved.