“She is not there,” was the report the girl brought back.

“Not there!” cried Mr. Carrollton.

“Not there!” repeated Madam Conway, a shadowy foreboding
of evil stealing over her. “She seldom walks at
this early hour,” she continued, and rising she went herself
to Margaret's room.

Everything was in perfect order, the bed was undisturbed,
the chamber empty, Margaret was gone, and on the dressing-table
lay the fatal letter, telling why she went. At
first Madam Conway did not see it; but it soon caught her
eye, and tremblingly she opened it, reading but the first line:
“I am going away forever.”

Then a loud shriek rang through the silent room, penetrating
to Arthur Carrollton's listening ear, and bringing
him at once to her side. With the letter still in her hand,
and her face of a deathly hue, and her eyes flashing with fear,
Madam Conway turned to him as he entered, saying, “Margaret
has gone, left us forever, killed herself it may be—
read;” and she handed him the letter, herself bending
eagerly forward, to hear what he might say.

But she listened in vain. With lightning rapidity,
Arthur Carrollton read what Mag had written—read that
she, his idol, the chosen bride of his bosom, was the daughter
of a servant, the grandchild of old Hagar! And for
this she had fled from his presence, fled because she knew of
the mighty pride which now, in the first bitter moment of his
agony, did indeed rise up a barrier between himself and the
beautiful girl he loved so well. Had she lain dead before
him, dead in all her youthful beauty, he could have folded her
in his arms, and then buried her from his sight, with a feeling
of perfect happiness, compared to that which he now felt

“Oh, Maggie, my lost one, can it be?” he whispered to
himself, and pressing his hand upon his chest, which heaved

[figure description] Page 434.[end figure description]

with strong emotion, he staggered to a seat, while the
perspiration stood in beaded drops upon his forehead, and
around his lips.

“What is it, Mr. Carrollton? 'Tis something dreadful,
sure,” said Mrs. Jeffrey, appearing in the door, but Madam
Conway motioned her away, and tottering to his side, said,
“Read it to me—read.”

The sound of her voice recalled his wandering mind, and
covering his face with his hands, he moaned in anguish;
then, growing suddenly calm, he snatched up the letter,
which had fallen to the floor, and read it aloud; while
Madam Conway, stupefied with horror, sank at his feet, and
clasping her hands above her head, rocked to and fro, but
made no word of comment. Far down the long ago her
thoughts were straying, and gathering up many by-gone
scenes, which told her that what she heard was true.

“Yes, 'tis true,” she groaned; and then, powerless to speak
another word, she laid her head upon a chair, while Mr.
Carrollton, preferring to be alone, sought the solitude of his
own room, where unobserved he could wrestle with his sorrow,
and conquer his inborn pride, which whispered to him
that a Carrollton must not wed a bride so far beneath him.

Only a moment, though, and then the love he bore for
Maggie Miller rolled back upon him with an overwhelming
power, while his better judgment, with that love, came hand
in hand, pleading for the fair young girl, who, now that he
had lost her, seemed a thousand fold dearer than before.
But he had not lost her; he would find her. She was Maggie
Miller still to him, and though old Hagar's blood were in
her veins, he would not give her up. This resolution once
made, it could not be shaken, and when half an hour or
more was passed, he walked with firm, unfaltering footsteps,
back to the apartment where Madam Conway still sat upon

[figure description] Page 435.[end figure description]

the floor, her head resting upon the chair, and her frame
convulsed with grief.

Her struggle had been a terrible one, and it was not over
yet, for with her it was more than a matter of pride and
love. Her daughter's rights had been set at naught; a
wrong had been done to the dead; the child who slept
beneath the pine had been neglected; nay, in life, had been,
perhaps, despised for an intruder, for one who had no right
to call her grandmother; and shudderingly she cried,
“Why was it suffered thus to be?” Then as she thought
of white-haired Hagar Warren, she raised her hand to
curse her, but the words died on her lips, for Hagar's deed
had brought to her much joy; and now, as she remembered
the bounding step, the merry laugh, the sunny face, and
loving words, which had made her later years so happy, she
involuntarily stretched out her arms in empty air, moaning
sadly, “I want her here. I want her now, just as she used
to be.” Then, over the grave of her buried daughter, over
the grave of the sickly child, whose thin, blue face came up
before her, just as it lay in its humble coffin, over the deception
of eighteen years, her heart bounded with one wild,
yearning throb, for every bleeding fibre clung with a deathlike
grasp to her, who had been so suddenly taken from her.

“I love her still,” she cried, “but can I take her back?”
And then commenced the fiercest struggle of all, the battling
of love and pride, the one rebelling against a child of
Hagar Warren, and the other clamoring loudly, that without
that child the world to her was nothing. It was the
hour of Madam Conway's humiliation, and in bitterness of
spirit, she groaned, “That I should come to this! Theo
first, and Margaret, my bright, my beautiful Margaret next.
Oh, how can I give her up, when I loved her, best of all—
best of all?”

[figure description] Page 436.[end figure description]

This was true, for all the deeper, stronger love of Madam
Conway's nature had gone forth to the merry, gleeful girl,
whose graceful, independent bearing she had so often likened
to herself, and the haughty race with which she claimed relationship.
How was this illusion dispelled! Margaret was
not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport. A servant girl had
been her mother, and of her father there was nothing known.
Madam Conway was one who seldom wept for grief. She had
stood calmly at the bedside of her dying husband, had buried
her only daughter from her sight, had met with many
reverses, and shed for all no tears, but now they fell like
rain upon her face, burning, blistering as they fell, but
bringing no relief.

“I shall miss her in the morning,” she cried, “miss her
at noon, miss her in the lonesome nights, miss her everywhere—
oh, Margaret, Margaret, 'tis more than I can bear!
Come back to me now, just as you are. I want you here—
here where the pain is hardest,” and she clasped her arms
tightly over her heaving bosom. Then her pride returned
again, and with it came thoughts of Arthur Carrollton.
He would scoff at her as weak and sentimental; he would
never take beyond the sea a bride of Hagarish birth; and
duty demanded that she, too, should be firm, and sanction
his decision. “But when he's gone,” she whispered, “when
he has left America behind, I'll find her, if my life is spared.
I'll find poor Margaret, and see that she does not want,
though I must not take her back.”

This resolution, however, did not bring her comfort, and
the hands pressed so convulsively upon her side could not
case her pain. Sure, never before had so dark an hour
enfolded that haughty woman, and a prayer that she might
die was trembling on her lips, when a footfall echoed along
the hall, and Arthur Carrollton stood before her. His face

[figure description] Page 437.[end figure description]

was very pale, bearing marks of the storm he had passed
through; but he was calm, and his voice was natural as he
said, “Possibly what we have heard is false. It may be a
vagary of Hagar's half crazed brain.”

For an instant Madam Conway had hoped so, too; but
when she reflected, she knew that it was true. Old Hagar
had been very minute in her explanations to Margaret, who
in turn had written exactly what she had heard, and Madam
Conway, when she recalled the past, could have no doubt
that it was true. She remembered everything, but more
distinctly the change of dress, at the time of the baptism.
There could be no mistake. Margaret was not hers, and so
she said to Arthur Carrollton, turning her head away as if
she, too, were in some way answerable for the disgrace.

“It matters not,” he replied, “whose she has been. She
is mine, now, and if you feel able, we will consult together
as to the surest method of finding her.”

A sudden faintness came over Madam Conway, and while
the expression of her face changed to one of joyful surprise,
she stammered out, “Can it be I hear aright? Do I
understand you? Are you willing to take poor Maggie
back?”

“I certainly have no other intention,” he answered.
“There was a moment the memory of which makes me
ashamed, when my pride rebelled; but it is over now, and
though Maggie cannot in reality be again your child, she
can be my wife, and I must find her.”

“You make me so happy, oh, so happy!” said Madam
Conway. “I feared you would cast her off, and in that
case it would have been my duty to do so too, though
I never loved a human being, as at this moment I love
her.”

Mr. Carrollton looked as if he did not fully comprehend

[figure description] Page 438.[end figure description]

the woman, who loving Margaret as she said she did, could
yet be so dependent upon his dicision; but he made no comment,
and when next he spoke he announced his intention
of calling upon Hagar, who possibly could tell him where
Margaret had gone. “At all events,” said he, “I may
ascertain why the secret, so long kept, was at this late day
divulged. It may be well,” he continued, “to say nothing
to the servants as yet, save that Maggie has gone. Mrs.
Jeffrey, however, had better be let into the secret at once.
We can trust her, I think.”

Madam Conway bowed, and Mr. Carrollton left the room,
starting immediately for the cottage by the mine. As he
approached the house, he saw the servant who for several
weeks had been staying there, and who now came out to
meet him, telling him that since the night before, Hagar had
been raving crazy, talking continually of Maggie, who, she
said, “had gone where none would ever find her.”

In some anxiety, Mr. Carrollton pressed on, until the cottage
door was reached, where for a moment he stood gazing
silently upon the poor woman before him. Upon the bed,
her white hair falling over her round, bent shoulders, and
her large eyes shining with delirious light, old Hagar sat,
weaving back and forth, and talking of Margaret, of Hester,
and “the little foolish child,” who, with a sneer upon her
lip, she said, “was a fair specimen of the Conway race.”

“Hagar,” said Mr. Carrollton, and at the sound of that
voice Hagar turned toward him her flashing eyes, then
with a scream, buried her head in the bed-clothes, saying,
“Go away, Arthur Carrollton! Why are you here?
Don't you know who I am? Don't you know what Margaret
is, and don't you know how proud you are?”

“Hagar,” he said again, subduing, by a strong effort, the
repugnance he felt at questioning her, “I know all, except

[figure description] Page 439.[end figure description]

where Margaret has gone, and if on this point you can give
me any information, I shall receive it most thankfully.”

“Gone!” shrieked Hagar, starting up in bed; “then she
has gone. The play is played out, the performance is ended,
and I sinned for nothing!”

“Hagar, will you tell me where Maggie is? I wish to
follow her,” said Mr. Carrollton; and Hagar answered,
“Maggie, Maggie—he said that lovingly enough, but
there's a catch somewhere. He does not wish to follow her
for any good—and though I know where she has gone, I'll
surely never tell. I kept one secret nineteen years. I can
keep another as long;” and folding her arms upon her
chest, she commenced singing, “I know full well, but I'll
never tell.”

Biting his lips with vexation, Mr. Carrollton tried first by
persuasion, then by flattery, and lastly by threats, to obtain
from her the desired information, but in vain. Her only
answer was, “I know full well, but I'll never tell,” save
once, when tossing towards him her long white hair, she
shrieked, “Don't you see a resemblance—only hers is black—
and so was mine nineteen years ago,—and so was Hester's
too—glossy and black as the raven's wing. The child is
like the mother—the mother was like the grandmother, and
the grandmother is like—me, Hagar Warren. Do you understand?”

Mr. Carrollton made no answer, and with a feeling of
disappointment walked away, shuddering as he thought,
“and she is Margaret's grandmother.”

He found Madam Conway in strong hysteries on Margaret's
bed, for she had refused to leave the room, saying, “she
would die there or nowhere.” Gradually the reality of her
loss had burst upon her, and now gasping, choking, and
wringing her hands, she lay upon the pillows, while Mrs.

[figure description] Page 440.[end figure description]

Jeffrey, worked up to a pitch of great nervous excitement,
fidgeted hither and thither, doing always the wrong thing,
fanning the lady when she did not wish to be fanned, and
ceasing to fan her just when she was “dying for want of air.”

As yet, Mrs. Jeffrey knew nothing definite, except that
something dreadful had happened to Margaret; but very
candidly Mr. Carrollton told her all, bidding her keep silent
on the subject; then, turning to Madam Conway, he repeated
to her the result of his call on old Hagar.

“The wretch!” gasped Madam Conway, while Mrs. Jeffrey,
running in her fright from the window to the door, and
from the door back to the window again, exclaimed, “Margaret
not a Conway, nor yet a Davenport, after all! It is
just what I expected. I always knew she came honestly by
those low-bred ways!”

“Jeffrey,” and the voice of the hysterical woman on the
bed was loud and distinct, as she grasped the arm of
the terrified little governess, who chanced to be within her
reach. “Jeffrey,” either leave my house at once, or speak
more deferentially of Miss Miller. You will call her by that
name, too. It matters not to Mr. Carrollton and myself
whose child she has been. She is ours now, and must be
treated with respect. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” meekly answered Jeffrey, rubbing her
dumpy arm which bore the mark of a thumb and finger, and
as her services were not just then required she glided from
the room to drown, if possible, her grievance in the leatherbound
London edition of Baxter!

Meanwhile, Madam Conway was consulting with Mr. Carrollton
as to their best mode of finding Margaret. “She
took the cars, of course,” said Mr. Carrollton, adding that
“he should go at once to the depot, and ascertain which
way she went. If I do not return to-night you need not be

[figure description] Page 441.[end figure description]

alarmed,” he said, as he was leaving the room, whereupon
Madam Conway called him back, bidding him “telegraph
for Theo at once, as she must have some one with her besides
that vexatious Jeffrey.”

Mr. Carrollton promised compliance with her request, and
then went immediately to the depot, where he learned that
no one had entered the cars from that place on the previous
night, and that Maggie, if she took the train at all, must
have done so at some other station. This was not unlikely,
and before the day was passed, Mr. Carrollton had visited
several different stations, and had talked with the conductors
of the several trains, but all to no purpose; and very
much disheartened, he returned at nightfall to the old stone
house, where to his great surprise, he found both Theo and
her husband. The telegram had done its mission, and feeling
anxious to know the worst, George had come up with
Theo to spend the night. It was the first time Madam Conway
had seen him since her memorable encounter with his
mother, for though Theo had more than once been home, he
had never before accompanied her, and now when Madam
Conway heard his voice in the hall below, she groaned
afresh. The sight of his good-humored face, however, and
his kind offer to do whatever he could to find the fugitive,
restored her composure in a measure, and she partially forgot
that he was in any way connected with the blue umbrella,
or the blue umbrella connected with him! Never in her
life had Theo felt very deeply upon any subject, and now,
though she seemed bewildered at what she heard, she manifested
no particular emotion, until her grandmother, wringing
her hands, exclaimed, “You have no sister now, my
child, and I no Margaret.” Then, indeed, her tears flowed,
and when her husband whispered to her, “We will love
poor Maggie all the same,” she cried aloud, but not quite

[figure description] Page 442.[end figure description]

as demoustratively as Madam Conway wished, and in a very
unamiable frame of mind, the old lady accused her of being
selfish and hard-hearted.

In this stage of proceedings Mr. Carrollton returned,
bringing no tidings of Maggie, whereupon another fit of
hysteries ensued, and as Theo behaved much worse than
Mrs. Jeffrey had done, the latter was finally summoned again
to the sick room, where she had last succeeded in quieting
the excited woman. The next morning George Douglas
visited old Hagar, but he too was unsuccessful, and that
afternoon he returned to Worcester, leaving Theo with her
grandmother, who, though finding fault with whatever she
did, refused to let her go until Margaret was found.

During the remainder of the week, Mr. Carrollton rode
through the country, making the most minute inquiries, and
receiving always the same discouraging answer. Once he
thought to advertise, but from making the affair thus public
he instinctively shrank, and resolving to spare neither his
time, his money, nor his health, he pursued his weary way
alone. Once, too, Madam Conway spoke of Henry Warner,
saying it was possible Maggie might have gone to him, as
she had thought so much of Rose; but Mr. Carrollton “knew
better.” “A discarded lover,” he said, “was the last person
in the world to whom a young girl like Margaret would go,
particularly as Theo had said that Henry was now the husband
of another.”

Still the suggestion haunted him, and on the Monday
following Henry Warner's first visit to Worcester, he, too,
went down to talk with Mr. Douglas, asking him, “if it were
possible that Maggie was in Leominster.”

“I know she is not,” said George, repeating the particulars
of his interview with Henry, who, he said, was at the
store on Saturday. “Once I thought of telling him all,”

[figure description] Page 443.[end figure description]

said he, “and then considering the relations which formerly
existed between them, I concluded to keep silent, especially
as he manifested no desire to speak of her, but appeared, I
fancied, quite uneasy when I casually mentioned Hillsdale.”

Thus was that matter decided, and while not many miles
away, Maggie was watching hopelessly for the coming of
Arthur Carrollton, he, with George Douglas, was devising
the best means for finding her, George generously offering
to assist in the search, and suggesting finally that he should
himself go to New York city, while Mr. Carrollton explored
Boston and its vicinity. It seemed quite probable that
Margaret would seek some of the large cities, as in her letter
she had said she could earn her livelihood by teaching music;
and quite hopeful of success, the young men parted, Mr.
Carrollton going immediately to Boston, while Mr. Douglas,
after a day or two, started for New York, whither, as the
reader will remember, he had gone at the time of Henry's
last visit to Worcester.

Here, for a time we leave them, Hagar raving mad,
Madam Conway in strong hysterics, Theo wishing herself
anywhere but at Hillsdale, Mrs. Jeffrey ditto, George
Douglas threading the crowded streets of the noisy city,
and Mr. Carrollton in Boston, growing paler and sadder as
day after day passed by, bringing him no trace of the lost
one. Here, I say, we leave them, while in another chapter
we follow the footsteps of her for whom this search was made.

p594-445

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