CHAPTER VIII. STARS AND STRIPES.
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On the rude bench by her cabin door, sat Hagar Warren,
her black eyes peering out into the woods, and her
quick ear turned to catch the first sound of bounding footsteps,
which came at last, and Maggie Miller was sitting by
her side.
“What is it, darling?” Hagar asked, and her shrivelled
hand smoothed, caressingly, the silken hair, as she looked
into the glowing face of the young girl and half guessed
what was written there.
To Theo, Mag had whispered the words, “I am engaged,”
and Theo had coldly answered, “Pshaw? Grandma will
quickly break that up. Why, Henry Warner is comparatively
poor. Mr. Douglas told me so, or rather I quizzed
him until I found it out. He says, though, that Henry has
rare business talents, and he could not do without him.”
To the latter part of Theo's remark, Maggie paid little
heed; but the mention of her grandmother troubled her.
She would oppose it, Mag was sure of that, and it was to
talk on this very subject she had come to Hagar's cottage.
“Just the way I s'posed it would end,” said Hagar, when
Mag, with blushing, half-averted face, told the story of her
engagement; “Just the way I s'posed 'twould end, but I
didn't think 'twould be so quick.”
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“Two months and a half is a great while, and then we
have been together so much,” replied Maggie, at the
same time asking if Hagar did not approve her choice.
“Henry Warner's well enough,” answered Hagar. “I've
watched him close and see no evil in him; but he isn't the
one for you, nor are you the one for him. You are both too
wild, too full of fun, and if yoked together will go to destruction,
I know. You need somebody to hold you back,
and so does he.”
Involuntarily, Maggie thought of Rose, mentally resolving
to be, if possible, more like her.
“You are not angry with me?” said Hagar, observing
Maggie's silence. “You asked my opinion, and I gave it to
you. You are too young to know who you like. Henry
Warner is the first man you ever knew, and, in two years'
time you'll tire of him.”
“Tire of him, Hagar? Tire of Henry Warner!” cried
Mag, a little indignantly. “You do not know me, if you
think I'll ever tire of him; and then, too, did I tell you
grandma keeps writing to me about a Mr. Carrollton, who
she says is wealthy, fine looking, highly educated, and very
aristocratic, and that last makes me hate him! I've heard
so much about aristocracy, that I'm sick of it, and just for
that reason I would not have this Mr. Carrollton, if I knew
he'd make me Queen of England. But grandma's heart is
set upon it, I know, and she thinks of course he would marry
me—says he is delighted with my daguerreotype—that awful
one, too, with the staring eyes. In grandma's last letter,
he sent me a note. 'Twas beautifully written, and I
dare say he is a fine young man, at least he talks common
sense, but I shan't answer it; and if you'll believe me, I used
part of it in lighting Henry's cigar, and with the rest I shall
light fire-crackers on the 4th of July; Henry has bought a
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lot of them, and we're going to have fun. How grandma
would scold!—but I shall marry Henry Warner, any way.
Do you think she will oppose me, when she sees how determined
I am?”
“Of course she will,” answered Hagar, “I know these
Carrolltons; they are a haughty race, and if your grandmother
has one of them in view she'll turn you from her
door sooner than see you married to another, and an American,
too.”
There was a moment's silence, and then with an unnatural
gleam in her eye, old Hagar turned towards Mag, and
grasping her shoulder, said, “If she does this thing, Maggie
Miller—if she casts you off, will you take me for your grandmother?
Will you let me live with you? I'll be your
drudge, your slave; say, Maggie, may I go with you?
Will you call me grandmother? I'd willingly die if only
once I could hear you speak to me thus, and know it was in
love.”
For a moment Mag looked at her in astonishment; then
thinking to herself, “She surely is half-crazed,” she answered
laughingly, “Yes, Hagar, if grandma casts me off,
you may go with me. I shall need your care, but I can't
promise to call you grandma, because you know you are
not.”
The corners of Hagar's mouth worked nervously, but her
teeth shut firmly over the thin, white lip, forcing back the
wild words trembling there, and the secret was not told.
“Go home, Maggie Miller,” she said, at last, rising slowly
to her feet. “Go home now, and leave me alone. I am
willing you should marry Henry Warner, nay, I wish you to
do it; but you must remember your promise.”
Maggie was about to answer, when her thoughts were
directed to another channel by the sight of George Douglas
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and Theo, coming slowly down the shaded pathway, which
led past Hagar's door. Old Hagar saw them, too, and,
whispering to Maggie, said, “there's another marriage brewing,
or the signs do not tell true, and madam will sanetion
this one, too, for there's money there, and gold can purify
any blood.”
Ere Maggie could reply, Theo called out, “you here,
Mag, as usual?” adding, aside, to her companion, “she has
the most unaccountable taste, so different from me, who
cannot endure anything low and vulgar. Can you? But I
need not ask,” she continued, “for your associations have
been of a refined nature.”
George Douglas did not answer, for his thoughts were
back in the brown farmhouse at the foot of the hill, where
his boyhood was passed, and he wondered what the high-bred
lady at his side would say if she could see the sunburnt
man and plain, old-fashioned woman, who called him
their son, George Washington! He would not confess that
he was ashamed of his parentage, for he tried to be a kind
and dutiful child, but he would a little rather that Theo Miller
should not know how democratic had been his early
training. So he made no answer, but, addressing himself
to Mag, asked “how she could find it in her heart to leave
her patient so long?”
“I'm going back directly,” she said, and donning her flat,
she started for home, thinking she had gained but little
satisfaction from Hagar, who, as Douglas and Theo passed
on, resumed her seat by the door, and listening to the sound
of Margaret's retreating footsteps, muttered, “the old lightheartedness
is gone. There are shadows gathering round
her; for once in love, she'll never be as free and joyous
again. But it can't be helped; it's the destiny of women,
and I only hope this Warner is worthy of her, but he ain't
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He's too wild—too full of what Hagar Warren calls bedevilment.
And Mag does everything he tells her to do. Not
content with tearing down his bed-curtains, which have hung
there full twenty years, she's set things all cornerwise,
because the folks do so in Worcester, and has turned the
parlor into a smoking room, till all the air of Hillsdale can't
take away that tobacco scent. Why, it almost knocks me
down!” and the old lady groaned aloud, as she recounted
to herself the recent innovations upon the time-honored
habits of her mistress's house.
Henry Warner was, indeed, rather a fast young man, but
it needed the suggestive presence of George Douglas to
bring out his true character; and for the four days succeeding
the arrival of the latter, there were rare doings at the
old stone house, where the astonished and rather delighted
servants looked on in amazement, while the young men sang
their jovial songs and drank of the rare old wine, which Mag,
utterly fearless of what her grandmother might say, brought
from the cellar below. But when, on the morning of the
4th, Henry Warner suggested that they have a celebration,
or, at least, hang out the American flag by way of showing
their patriotism, there were signs of rebellion in the kitchen,
while even Mrs. Jeffrey, who had long since ceased to interfere,
felt it her duty to remonstrate. Accordingly, she
descended to the parlor, where she found George Douglas
and Mag dancing to the tune of Yankee Doodle, which
Theo played upon the piano, while Henry Warner whistled
a most stirring accompaniment! To be heard above that
din was impossible, and involuntarily patting her own slippered
foot to the lively strain, the distressed little lady went
back to her room, wondering what Madam Conway would
say if she knew how her house was being desecrated.
But Madam Conway did not know. She was three
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thousand miles away, and with this distance between them,
Maggie dared do anything; so when the flag was again
mentioned, she answered apologetically, as if it were something
of which they ought to be ashamed: “We never had
any, but we can soon make one, I know. 'Twill be fun to
see it float from the house-top!” and, flying up the stairs
to the dusty garret, she drew from a huge oaken chest, a
scarlet coat, which had belonged to the former owner of the
place, who little thought, as he sat in state, that his
favorite coat would one day furnish materials for the
emblem of American freedom!
No such thought as this, however, obtruded itself upon
Mag, as she bent over the chest. “The coat is of no use,” she
said, and gathering it up, she ran back to the parlor, where,
throwing it across Henry's lap, she told how it had belonged
to her great-great-grandfather, who, at the time of
the Revolution, went home to England. The young men
exchanged a meaning look, and then burst into a laugh, but
the cause of their merriment they did not explain, lest the
prejudices of the girls should be aroused.
“This is just the thing,” said Henry, entering heart and
soul into the spirit of the fun. “This is grand. Can't
you find some blue for the ground-work of the stars?”
Mag thought a moment, and then exclaimed, “Oh, yes,
I have it, grandma has a blue satin bodice, which she wore
when she was a young lady. She once gave me a part of
the back for my dolly's dress. She won't care if I cut up
the rest for a banner.”
“Of course not,” answered George Douglas. “She'll be
glad to have it used for such a laudable purpose,” and walking
to the window, he laughed heartily as he saw in fancy
the wrath of the proud English woman, when she learned
the use to which her satin bodice had been appropriated.
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The waist was brought in a twinkling, and then, when
Henry asked for some white, Mag cried, “A sheet will be
just the thing—one of grandma's small linen ones. It
won't hurt it a bit,” she added, as she saw a shadow on
Theo's brow, and, mounting to the top of the high chest
of drawers, she brought out a sheet of finest linen, which,
with rose leaves, and fragrant herbs, had been carefully
packed away.
It was a long, delightful process, the making of that banner,
and Maggie's voice rang out loud and clear, as she saw
how cleverly Henry Warner managed the shears, cutting
the red coat into stripes. The arrangement of the satin
fell to Maggie's lot, and, while George Douglas made the
stars, Theo looked on, a little doubtfully, not that her nationality
was in any way affected, for what George Douglas sanctioned
was by this time right with her; but she felt some misgiving
as to what her grandmother might say; and thinking
if she did nothing but look on and laugh, the blame would
fall on Mag, she stood aloof, making occasionally a suggestion,
and seeming as pleased as any one, when, at last,
the flag was done. A quilting frame served as a flag-staff,
and Mag was chosen to plant it upon the top of the house,
where was a cupola, or miniature tower, overlooking the
surrounding country. Leading to this tower was a narrow
staircase, and up these stairs Mag bore the flag, assisted by
one of the servant girls, whose birth-place was green Erin,
and whose broad, good-humored face shone with delight,
as she fastened the pole securely in its place, and then shook
aloft her checked apron, in answer to the cheer which came
up from below, when first the American banner waved over
the old stone house.
Attracted by the noise, and wondering what fresh mischief
they were doing, Mrs. Jeffrey went out into the yard
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just in time to see the flag of freedom as it shook itself out
in the summer breeze.
“Heaven help me!” she ejaculated; “Stars and Stripes,
on Madam Conway's house!” and resolutely shutting her
eyes, lest they should look again, on what to her seemed
sacrilege, she groped her way back to the house, and retiring
to her room, wrote to Madam Conway an exaggerated
account of the proceedings, bidding her hasten home, or
Mag and Theo would be ruined.
The letter being written, the good lady felt better—so
much better, indeed, that after an hour's deliberation she
concluded not to send it, inasmuch as it contained many
complaints against the young lady Margaret, who she knew
was sure in the end to find favor in her grandmother's eyes.
This was the first time Mrs. Jeffrey had attempted a letter
to her employer, for Maggie had been the chosen correspondent,
Theo affecting to dislike anything like letter-writing.
On the day previous to Henry Warner's arrival at the
stone house, Mag had written to her grandmother, and ere
the time came for her to write again, she had concluded to
keep his presence there a secret: so Madam Conway was,
as yet, ignorant of his existence; and while in the homes of
the English nobility, she bore herself like a royal princess,
talking to young Arthur Carrollton of her beautiful grandaughter,
she little dreamed of the real state of affairs at
home.
But it was not for Mrs. Jeffrey to enlighten her, and tearing
her letter in pieces, the governess sat down in her easy-chair
by the window, mentally congratulating herself upon
the fact that “the two young savages,” as she styled Douglas
and Warner, were to leave on the morrow. This last
act of theirs, the hoisting of the banner, had been the culminating
point, and too indignant to sit with them at the
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same table, she resolutely kept her room throughout the
entire day, poring intently over “Baxter's Saint's Rest,”
her favorite volume when at all flurried or excited. Occasionally,
too, she would stop her ears with jeweller's cotton, to
shut out the sound of Hail Columbia as it came up to her
from the parlor below, where the young men were doing
their best to show their patriotism.
Towards evening, alarmed by a whizzing sound, which
seemed to be often repeated, and wishing to know the cause,
she stole half way down the stairs, when the mischievous
Mag greeted her with a serpent, which hissing beneath her
feet, sent her quickly back to her room, from which she did
not venture again. Mrs. Jeffrey was very good natured,
and reflecting that “young folks must have fun,” she became
at last comparatively calm, and at an early hour sought her
pillow. But thoughts of “stars and stripes” waving directly
over her head, as she knew they were, made her nervous,
and the long clock struck the hour of two, while she was
yet restless and wakeful.
“Maybe the Saint's Rest will quiet me a trifle,” she
thought, and striking a light, she attempted to read; but in
vain, for every word was a star, every line a stripe, and
every leaf a flag. Shutting the book and hurriedly pacing
the floor, she exclaimed, “It's of no use trying to sleep, or
meditate either. Baxter himself couldn't do it with that
thing over his head, and I mean to take it down. It's a
duty I owe to King George's memory, and to Madam Conway;”
and stealing from her room, she groped her way up
the dark, narrow stairway, until emerging into the bright
moonlight, she stood directly beneath the American banner,
waving so gracefully in the night wind. “It's a clever
enough device,” she said, gazing rather admiringly at it.
“And I'd let it be if I s'posed I could sleep a wink; but I
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can't. It's worse for my nerves than strong green tea, and
I'll not lie awake for all the Yankee flags in Christendom;”
so saying, the resolute little woman tugged at the quilt-frame
until she loosened it from its fastenings, and then
started to return.
But, alas! the way was narrow and dark, the banner was
large and cumbersome, while the lady that bore it was nervous
and weak. It is not strange, then, that Maggie, who
slept at no great distance, was awakened by a tremendous
crash, as of some one falling the entire length of the tower
stairs, while a voice, frightened and faint, called out, “Help
me, Margaret, do! I am dead! I know I am!”
Striking a light, Maggie hurried to the spot, while her
merry laugh aroused the servants, who came together in a
body. Stretched upon the floor, with one foot thrust
entirely through the banner, which was folded about her
so that the quilt-frame lay directly upon her bosom, was
Mrs. Jeffrey, the broad frill of her cap standing up erect,
and herself asserting with every breath that “she was dead
and buried, she knew she was.”
“Wrapped in a winding sheet, I'll admit,” said Maggie,
“but not quite dead, I trust;” and putting down her light,
she attempted to extricate her governess, who continued to
apologize for what she had done. “Not that I cared so
much about your celebrating America; but I couldn't sleep
with the thing over my head; I was going to put it back in
the morning before you were up. There! there! careful!
It's broken short off!” she screamed, as Maggie tried to release
her foot from the rent in the linen sheet, a rent which
the frightened woman persisted in saying, “she could darn
as good as new,” while at the same time she implored of
Maggie to handle carefully her ankle, which had been
sprained by the fall.
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Maggie's recent experience in broken bones had made her
quite an adept, and taking the slight form of Mrs. Jeffrey in
her arms, she carried her back to her room, where growing
more quiet, the old lady told her how she happened to fall,
saying, “she never thought of stumbling, until she fancied
that Washington and all his regiment were after her, and
when she turned her head to see, she lost her footing, and
fell.
Forcing back her merriment, which in spite of herself
would occasionally burst forth, Maggie made her teacher as
comfortable as possible, and then staid with her until morning,
when, leaving her in charge of a servant, she went below
to say farewell to her guests. Between George Douglas
and Theo, there were a few low spoken words, she
granting him permission to write, while he promised to visit
her again in the early autumn. He had not yet talked to
her of love, for Rose Warner had still a home in his heart,
and she must be dislodged ere another could take her place.
But his affection for her was growing gradually less. Theo
suited him well, her family suited him better, and when at
parting he took her hand in his, he resolved to ask her for
it, when next he came to Hillsdale.
Meanwhile, between Henry Warner and Maggie there
was a far more affectionate farewell, he whispering to her
of a time not far distant, when he would claim her as his
own, and she should go with him. He would write to her
every week, he said, and Rose should write, too. He would
see her in a few days, and tell her of his engagement, which
he knew would please her.
“Let me send her a line,” said Maggie, and on a tiny
sheet of paper, she wrote, “Dear Rose: Are you willing
I should be your sister, Maggie?”
Half an hour later, and Hagar Warren, coming through
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the garden gate, looked after the carriage which bore the
gentlemen to the depot, muttering to herself, “I'm glad the
high bucks have gone. A good riddance to them both.”
In her disorderly chamber, too, Mrs. Jeffrey hobbled on
one foot to the window, where, with a deep sigh of relief,
she sent after the young men a not very complimentary
adieu, which was echoed in part by the servants below,
while Theo, on the piazza, exclaimed against “the lonesome
old house, which was never so lonesome before,” and Maggie
seated herself upon the stairs and cried!
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Holmes, Mary Jane, 1825-1907 [1859], Dora Deane, or, The East India uncle; and Maggie Miller, or, Old Hagar's secret. (C.M. Saxton, New York) [word count] [eaf594T].
