"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 ease her pain. Surely
never before had so dark an hour infolded 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 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.
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