Maggie Miller Part 13

"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!" hoa.r.s.ely 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-fas.h.i.+oned."

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 Was.h.i.+ngton?

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 pa.s.sed 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 grat.i.tude 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-was.h.i.+ng, while Betsy Jane stole away upstairs to try the experiment of arranging her hair after the fas.h.i.+on 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 pa.s.sed 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 l.u.s.tily for "Chelsea, No. 4" and "Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 pa.s.sed. 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 antic.i.p.ated 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: