The months wore away, and Margaret applied herself closely to her labor, and became a favorite with her companions. Gladly would she have changed places with most of them, but they knew not the secret sorrow which was wearing her bloom away. Her sighs grew more frequent, as the time rapidly approached when she must leave them.
Again and again she resolved to go to Mrs. Armstrong, and tell her all her grief, but the remembrance of her kindness made her cheek turn scarlet when the thought suggested itself. No, she could not reveal it to one whom she loved so well. She must go far away, and hide her shame from the eyes of all who had befriended her, and she had made many friends, yet would have lingered a few weeks longer, had she not one evening just at dark espied an old gentleman from her village, an acquaintance of her father's. She could not bear the thought that she must be carried back, to scenes so closely allied to her sufferings, and bear the scorn of those who knew her. She could not endure that, and fearing that the person whom she had seen might some time meet and recognize her, she hastened the preparations for a change. Again she collected her clothing, now more valuable, packed it and awaited some indication of the direction in which she should move.
She must once more see the face of that good woman, who had been so faithful and kind to her; and after many efforts to call upon her, finally gained courage and did so.
A strange thrill came over Mrs. Armstrong, as she heard the gate close, and a well-known step on the gravel walk. Margaret patted her old friend Trot as she approached the house, and somewhat surprised Mrs. Armstrong with her presence when she entered.
"I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Armstrong, with her usual kind look of welcome, but with a deep tremor in her voice. "Come and sit by me, Margaret, and let me see if your hard labor is wearing you out. I have thought for some weeks that you looked pale."
Margaret trembled in every limb, as she took the seat her friend offered her, for a searching glance accompanied her friend's words. Just then a strange thought flashed through Mrs. Armstrong's mind-a thought she could not put aside, and she tried in every way to win the poor girl's confidence, and perhaps might have succeeded had there not been heard the sound of footsteps outside. Trot's loud bark made them both start and turn their faces to the window. Margaret gave one glance,--and she needed not a second to assure her that the caller was none other than the old gentleman she had seen on the street. In a moment there was a knock at the door. While Mrs. Armstrong answered the call, Margaret made one bound from the sitting room to the kitchen, and from thence into the open air, and flew as fast as her feet could carry her, towards her boarding house.
As she turned from the principal street, a woman accosted her, and inquired the way to the Belmont House. Glad of anything that would even for a moment take her thoughts from herself, she offered to show her the way.
The darkness was so great, she had no fear of being recognized, as she walked in silence with the stranger. One thought filled her whole being, and the problem with her was, how she could escape from N--, and where should she find shelter?
"Perhaps you can tell me," said the lady, in a clear, silvery voice, "of some young girl, or two, or three even, whom I can get to return with me to B--."
"I am here," she continued, "in search of help; good American help. I am so worn with foreign servants that I can endure them no longer."
Margaret's heart gave one bound. Here was her opportunity, and she only needed the courage to offer her services.
"Perhaps you would go?" said the stranger, who looked for the first time on Margaret's face, as they stopped in the light that shone brilliantly in front of the Belmont House. "Or, maybe you do not work for a living. Excuse me, if I have made a blunder."
"I do," answered Margaret, "and would like to go with you if I can earn good wages."
"I will see that you are well remunerated, provided you suit me. I shall go to-morrow, in the noon train. If I do not succeed in getting any others beside yourself, will you meet me at the station?"
Margaret replied in the affirmative, and retraced her steps, pondering upon how she should secrete herself during the intervening period.
She walked rapidly back to her home, and thought how fortunate it was that her room-mates were absent that night, and good Mrs. Crawford would never suspect that the quiet girl up stairs was planning how she could escape with her clothing. The darkness of the evening favored her, and the noise within prevented any that might be without, from being noticed.
She enclosed the balance due for her board, in an envelope, sealed, and directed it to Mrs. Crawford, and laid it on the little table at which she had stood so many mornings, weary in body and sick in soul.
She hoped she would not encounter any one on the stairs, and to her relief she did not. For an instant she paused, as she heard the footsteps of the good housewife walking from the pantry to the dining-room, intent on her useful life, uncouth, illiterate, but kind and well-meaning. A tear stole over her cheek as she listened for the last time to that firm step, which never seemed to flag in its daily rounds, and one which often, when the day's work was over, went lightly to the bedside of the sick. But no time must be lost; the door was opened and closed, and she was once again out in the world, a wanderer. She knew not what her next step was to be. Standing there in the silence and darkness of the night, she clasped her hands, and with earnest prayer, implored Divine guidance.
Down through the earthly shadows, through clouds of oppression, swept a mother's pure, undying love. Love for her wronged child, and pity for her state; for angel's missions are not in halls of light, amid scenes of mirth, but far away in desolate homes, with the oppressed and the forsaken, bringing hope to the despairing, comfort to the lonely, joy to the sad, and rest to weary hearts.
A thought darted through her mind, and she rose firm and collected, as though a human hand had been outstretched for her aid. Who shall question that it was a mother that spoke to her at that moment?
She arose, and as noiselessly as possible wended her way to a small and obscure dwelling, inhabited by a strange old woman, known to all the villagers, as possessing a wondrous power of vision, by which she professed to foretell the future, and decide questions of love and business.
Margaret had often heard the girls in the factory speak of her, and knew that they frequently consulted her; but she had always shrank from the thought of going to her dwelling, though often importuned by them to do so. Now, how gladly her feet turned that way, as to her only refuge, for she well knew if she was searched for, no one would think of going there to find her.
She reached the place at last, and with beating heart and dizzy brain, raised her hand and rapped very softly at the door. Then the thought flashed over her, that some one might be there who knew her, and hope fled for an instant.
The rap, low as it was, soon brought the old woman, who opened the door and said in a voice tremulous but sweet, "Come in, my dear. I saw last night that a stranger was to visit me at this hour; yes, it's the same face," then motioned for her to pass in.
Margaret's first thought was that some evil was intended, and she trembled and grew pale.
"No fears, my child," said the woman, as though she had read her very thought, "angels are around you, guarding your life. I do only my part of the work, which is to keep you to-night."
And this was the strange woman of whom she had heard so munch. Her fears vanished, she took the proffered seat, and without a shadow of distrust, drank the glass of cordial which was passed to her.
A feeling of rest came over her,--a rest deeper than sleep imparts. She leaned back in the chair, pillowed her head against the cushion, and felt more peaceful than she had for many months.
A strange curiosity pervaded her being, as she watched the woman moving about the room, to know of her former life-the life of her maidenhood,--and learn if others beside herself had loved and been betrayed.
"I shall have no visitors to-night," said the woman, seating herself opposite to Margaret.
"Do you often afford a shelter to strangers, as you have to me to-night?"
"Yes, child; many a sorrow-laden traveller, worn with life, seeks my lowly cot."
"Sorrow-laden and worn with life," said Margaret, repeating the words to herself; "she must have known my past experience;" and she wished she would go on, for somehow her words comforted her.
"Yes, there are more sinned against than sinning," she continued. "I knew that you was coming, or rather some one, for last night in my dreams I saw a form, and now I know it was your own, floating on a dark stream. There was no boat in sight, no human being on shore, to save you. The cold waters chilled you, till you grew helpless, and the waves bore you swiftly to the ocean. I cried for help, and was awakened by my effort. That stream represents your past, and here you are now in my dwelling. Some one has wronged you, girl?"
She did not see the tinge on the pale cheek of Margaret, but continued, "Yes, wronged; but I see clouds and darkness before you, and then happiness, but not the joys of earth. Something higher, holier, my child."
A light seemed to have gathered over the face of the speaker, and her words, although strange and new to Margaret, seemed full of truth and meaning.
"Shall I find rest on earth?" she inquired.
"No, not here; above," the old woman lifted her eyes toward heaven, then said:
"You are stepping into sorrow now; going with one who will degrade you. Do not follow her. Though her outer garments are of purple and fine linen, her spiritual robe is black and unseemly."
"Where? O, tell me, then, where to go," exclaimed Margaret, her whole face pale with terror.
"Go nowhere at present. I see nothing now; all is dark before me. Stay beneath my roof, till light breaks. I see that you will need a mother's care ere long."
Here the poor girl's long pent up tears flowed in torrents; tears such as angels pity. It was a long time ere she grew calm; and when peace came, it was like that of a statue, she was cold and silent. No future stretched before her, nothing but a present, sad and hopeless, in which circumstances had placed her.
"Shall I tell you the story of my girl-life," said the strange, weird woman, putting a fresh supply of wood upon the fire, which had fallen into embers.
Margaret's interest manifested itself in her face, as she answered, "I would like to know if others have suffered like myself?"
"It will help you bear your own burden better, and perhaps show you that none escape the fire. I will proceed with my narrative."
"Many years ago, so many that it seems as though ages must have intervened, I loved a young and elegant man, who returned my affection with all the devotion which an earnest, exacting nature like mine could desire. I was the only child of wealthy parents, who spared no pains or expense on my education. With them I visited Europe, and while there, met this person, who seemed to be all that mortal could aspire to; refined, educated, and the possessor of a fortune. The alliance was the consummation of my fond parents' wishes. I will pass over the weeks of bliss which followed our engagement, and speak of scenes fraught with the most intense excitement to ............