Maggie Miller: The Story of Old Hagar's Secret

by Mary Jane Holmes

CHAPTER XIX.

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

"Hagar! Hagar!" exclaimed Maggie, playfully bounding to her side, and laying her hand upon her arm. "What aileth thee, Hagar?"

The words were meet, for never Hagar in the desert, thirsting for the gushing fountain, suffered more than did she who sat with covered face and made no word of answer. Maggie was unusually happy that day, for but a few hours before she had received Henry's letter making her free—free to love Arthur Carrollton, who she well knew only waited a favorable opportunity to tell her of his love; so with a heart full of happiness she had stolen away to visit Hagar, reproaching herself as she came for having neglected her so long. "But I'll make amends by telling her what I'm sure she must have guessed," she thought, as she entered the cottage, where, to her surprise, she found her weeping. Thinking the old woman's distress might possibly be occasioned by her neglect, she spoke again. "Are you crying for me, Hagar?"

"Yes, Maggie Miller, for you—for you!" answered Hagar, lifting up a face so ghastly white that Maggie started back in some alarm.

"Poor Hagar, you are ill," she said, and advancing nearer she wound her arms around the trembling form, and, pillowing the snowy head upon her bosom, continued soothingly: "I did not mean to stay away long. I will not do it again, but I am so happy, Hagar, so happy that I half forgot myself."

For a moment Hagar let her head repose upon the bosom of her child, then murmuring softly, "It will never lie there again," she arose, and, confronting Maggie, said, "Is it love which makes you so happy?"

"Yes, Hagar, love," answered Margaret, the deep blushes stealing over her glowing face.

"And is it your intention to marry the man you love?" continued Hagar, thinking only of Henry Warner, while Margaret, thinking only of Arthur Carrollton, replied, "If he will marry me, I shall most surely marry him."

"It is enough. I must tell her," whispered Hagar; while Maggie asked,
"Tell me what?"

For a moment the wild eyes fastened themselves upon her with a look of yearning anguish, and then Hagar answered slowly, "Tell you what you've often wished to know—my secret!" the last word dropping from her lips more like a warning hiss than like a human sound. It was long since Maggie had teased for the secret, so absorbed had she been in other matters, but now that there was a prospect of knowing it her curiosity was reawakened, and while her eyes glistened with expectation, she said, "Yes, tell it to me, Hagar, and then I'll tell you mine;" and all over her beautiful face there shone a joyous light as she thought how Hagar, who had once pronounced Henry Warner unworthy, would rejoice in her new love.

"Not here, Maggie—not here in this room can I tell you," said old Hagar; "but out in the open air, where my breath will come more freely;" and, leading the way, she hobbled to the mossy bank where Maggie had sat with Arthur Carrollton on the morning of his departure for Montreal.

Here she sat down, while Maggie threw herself upon the damp ground at her feet, her face lighted with eager curiosity and her lustrous eyes bright as stars with excitement. For a moment Hagar bent forward, and, folding her hands one above the other, laid them upon the head of the young girl as if to gather strength for what she was to say. But all in vain; for when she essayed to speak her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, and her lips gave forth unmeaning sounds.

"It must be something terrible to affect her so," thought Maggie, and, taking the bony hands between her own, she said, "I would not tell it, Hagar; I do not wish to hear."

The voice aroused the half-fainting woman, and, withdrawing her hand from Maggie's grasp, she replied, "Turn away your face, Margaret Miller, so I cannot see the hatred settling over it, when I tell you what I must."

"Certainly; my back if you prefer it," answered Maggie, half playfully; and turning round she leaned her head against the feeble knees of Hagar.

"Maggie, Maggie," began the poor old woman, lingering long and lovingly over that dear name, "nineteen years ago, next December, I took upon my soul the secret sin which has worn my life away, but I did it for the love I had for you. Oh, Margaret, believe it, for the love I had for you, more than for my own ambition;" and the long fingers slid nervously over the bands of shining hair just within her reach.

At the touch of those fingers, Maggie shuddered involuntarily. There was a vague, undefined terror stealing over her, and, impatient to know the worst, she said, "Go on, tell me what you did."

"I can't—I can't—and yet I must!" cried Hagar. "You were a beautiful baby, Maggie, and the other one was sickly, pinched, and blue. I had you both in my room the night after Hester died; and the devil—Maggie, do you know how the devil will creep into the heart, and whisper, whisper till the brain is all on fire? This thing he did to me, Maggie, nineteen years ago, he whispered—whispered dreadful things, and his whisperings were of you!"

"Horrible, Hagar!" exclaimed Maggie. "Leave the devil, and tell me of yourself."

"That's it," answered Hagar. "If I had but left him then, this hour would never have come to me; but I listened, and when he told me that a handsome, healthy child would be more acceptable to the Conways than a weakly, fretful one—when he said that Hagar Warren's grandchild had far better be a lady than a drudge—that no one would ever know it, for none had noticed either—I did it, Maggie Miller; I took you from the pine-board cradle where you lay—I dressed you in the other baby's clothes—I laid you on her pillow—I wrapped her in your coarse white frock—I said that she was mine, and Margaret—oh, Heaven! can't you see it? Don't you know that I, the shriveled, skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother!"

There was no need for Maggie Miller to answer that appeal. The words had burned into her soul—scorching her very life-blood, and maddening her brain. It was a fearful blow—crushing her at once. She saw it all, understood it all, and knew there was no hope. The family pride at which she had often laughed was strong within her, and could not at once be rooted out. All the fond household memories, though desecrated and trampled down, were not so soon to be forgotten. She could not own that half-crazed woman for her grandmother! As Hagar talked Maggie had risen, and now, tall, and erect as the mountain ash which grew on her native hills, she stood before Hagar, every vestige of color faded from her face, her eyes dark as midnight and glowing like coals of living fire, while her hands, locked despairingly together, moved slowly towards Hagar, as if to thrust her aside.

"Oh, speak again!" she said, "but not the dreadful words you said to me just now. Tell me they are false—say that my father perished in the storm, that my mother was she who held me on her bosom when she died—that I—oh, Hagar, I am not—I will not be the creature you say I am! Speak to me," she continued; "tell me; is it true?" and in her voice there was not the olden sound.

Hoarse—hollow—full of reproachful anguish it seemed; and, bowing her head in very shame, old Hagar made her answer: "Would to Heaven 'twere not true—but it is—it is! Kill me, Maggie," she continued, "strike me dead, if you will, but take your eyes away! You must not look thus at me, a heartbroken wretch."

But not of Hagar Warren was Maggie thinking then. The past, the present, and the future were all embodied in her thoughts. She had been an intruder all her life; had ruled with a high hand people on whom she had no claim, and who, had they known her parentage, would have spurned her from them. Theo, whom she had held in her arms so oft, calling her sister and loving her as such, was hers no longer; nor yet the fond woman who had cherished her so tenderly—neither was hers; and in fancy she saw the look of scorn upon that woman's face when she should hear the tale, for it must be told—and she must tell it, too. She would not be an impostor; and then there flashed upon her the agonizing thought, before which all else seemed as naught—in the proud heart of Arthur Carrollton was there a place for Hagar Warren's grandchild? "No, no, no!" she moaned; and the next moment she lay at Hagar's feet, white, rigid, and insensible.

"She's dead!" cried Hagar; and for one brief instant she hoped that it was so.

But not then and there was Margaret to die; and slowly she came back to life, shrinking from the touch of Hagar's hand when she felt it on her brow.

"There may be some mistake," she whispered; but Hagar answered, "There is none"; at the same time relating so minutely the particulars of the deception that Maggie was convinced, and, covering her face with her hands, sobbed aloud, while Hagar, sitting by in silence, was nerving herself to tell the rest.

The sun had set, and the twilight shadows were stealing down upon them, when, creeping abjectly upon her knees towards the wretched girl, she said, "There is more, Maggie, more—I have not told you all."

But Maggie had heard enough, and, exerting all her strength, she sprang to her feet, while Hagar clutched eagerly at her dress, which was wrested from her grasp, as Maggie fled away—away—she knew not, cared not, whither, so that she were beyond the reach of the trembling voice which called after her to return. Alone in the deep woods, with the darkness falling around her, she gave way to the mighty sorrow which had come so suddenly upon her. She could not doubt what she had heard. She knew that it was true, and as proof after proof crowded upon her, until the chain of evidence was complete, she laid her head upon the rain-wet grass, and shudderingly stopped her ears, to shut out, if possible, the memory of the dreadful words, "I, the shriveled, skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother." For a long time she lay there thus, weeping till the fountain of her tears seemed dry; then, weary, faint, and sick, she started for her home. Opening cautiously the outer door, she was gliding up the stairs when Madam Conway, entering the hall with a lamp, discovered her, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at the strangeness of her appearance. Her dress, bedraggled and wet, was torn in several places by the briery bushes she had passed; her hair, loosened from its confinement, hung down her back, while her face was so white and ghastly that Madam Conway in much alarm followed her up the stairs, asking what had happened.

"Something dreadful came to me in the woods," said Maggie; "but I can't tell you to-night. To-morrow I shall be better—or dead—oh, I wish I could be dead—before you hate me so, dear grand—No, I didn't mean that—you aint; forgive me, do;" and sinking to the floor she kissed the very hem of Madam Conway's dress.

Unable to understand what she meant, Madam Conway divested her of her damp clothing, and, placing her in bed, sat down beside her, saying gently, "Can you tell me now what frightened you?"

A faint cry was Maggie's only answer, and taking the lady's hand she laid it upon her forehead, where the drops of perspiration were standing thickly. All night long Madam Conway sat by her, going once to communicate with Arthur Carrollton, who, anxious and alarmed, came often to the door, asking if she slept. She did sleep at last—a fitful feverish sleep; but ever at the sound of Mr. Carrollton's voice a spasm of pain distorted her features, and a low moan came from her lips. Maggie had been terribly excited, and when next morning she awoke she was parched with burning fever, while her mind at intervals seemed wandering; and ere two days passed she was raving with delirium, brought on, the physician said, by some sudden shock, the nature of which no one could even guess.

For three weeks she hovered between life and death, whispering oft of the horrid shape which had met her in the woods, robbing her of happiness and life. Winding her feeble arms around Madam Conway's neck, she would beg of her most piteously not to cast her off—not to send her away from the only home she had ever known—"For I couldn't help it," she would say. "I didn't know it, and I've loved you all so much—so much! Say, grandma, may I call you grandma all the same? Will you love poor Maggie a little?" and Madam Conway, listening to words whose meaning she could not fathom, would answer by laying the aching head upon her bosom, and trying to soothe the excited girl. Theo, too, was summoned home, but at her Maggie at first refused to look, and, covering her eyes with her hand, she whispered scornfully, "Pinched, and blue, and pale; that's the very look. I couldn't see it when I called you sister."

Then her mood would change, and motioning Theo to her side she would say to her, "Kiss me once, Theo, just as you used to do when I was Maggie Miller."

Towards Arthur Carrollton she from the first manifested fear, shuddering whenever he approached her, and still exhibiting signs of uneasiness if he left her sight. "He hates me," she said, "hates me for what I could not help;" and when, as he often did, he came to her bedside, speaking words of love, she would answer mournfully: "Don't, Mr. Carrollton; your pride is stronger than your love. You will hate me when you know all."

Thus two weeks went by, and then with the first May day reason returned again, bringing life and strength to the invalid, and joy to those who had so anxiously watched over her. Almost her first rational question was for Hagar, asking if she had been there.

"She is confined to her bed with inflammatory rheumatism," answered Madam Conway; "but she inquires for you every day, they say; and once when told you could not live she started to crawl on her hands and knees to see you, but fainted near the gate, and was carried back."

"Poor old woman!" murmured Maggie, the tears rolling down her cheeks, as she thought how strong must be the love that half-crazed creature bore her, and how little it was returned, for every feeling of her nature revolted from claiming a near relationship with one whom she had hitherto regarded as a servant. The secret, too, seemed harder to divulge, and day by day she put it off, saying to them when they asked what had so much affected her that she could not tell them yet—she must wait till she was stronger.

So Theo went back to Worcester as mystified as ever, and Maggie was left much alone with Arthur Carrollton, who strove in various ways to win her from the melancholy into which she had fallen. All day long she would sit by the open window, seemingly immovable, her large eyes, now intensely black, fixed upon vacancy, and her white face giving no sign of the fierce struggle within, save when Madam Conway, coming to her side, would lay her hand caressingly on her in token of sympathy. Then, indeed, her lips would quiver, and turning her head away, she would say, "Don't touch me—don't!"

To Arthur Carrollton she would listen with apparent composure, though often as he talked her long, tapering nails left their impress in her flesh, so hard she strove to seem indifferent. Once when they were left together alone he drew her to his side, and bending very low, so that his lips almost touched her marble cheek, he told her of his love, and how full of anguish had been his heart when he thought that she would die.

"But God kindly gave you back to me," he said; "and now, my precious
Margaret, will you be my wife? Will you go with me to my English home,
from which I have tarried now too long because I would not leave you?
Will Maggie answer me?" and he folded her lovingly in his arms.

Oh, how could she tell him No, when every fiber of her heart thrilled with the answer Yes. She mistook him—mistook the character of Arthur Carrollton, for, though pride was strong within him, he loved the beautiful girl who lay trembling in his arms better than he loved his pride; and had she told him then who and what she was, he would not have deemed it a disgrace to love a child of Hagar Warren. But Margaret did not know him, and when he said again, "Will Maggie answer me?" there came from her lips a piteous, wailing cry, and turning her face away she answered mournfully: "No, Mr. Carrollton, no, I cannot be your wife. It breaks my heart to tell you so; but if you knew what I know, you would never have spoken to me words of love. You would have rather thrust me from you, for indeed I am unworthy."

"Don't you love me, Maggie?" Mr. Carrollton said, and in the tones of his voice there was so much tenderness that Maggie burst into tears, and, involuntarily resting her head upon his bosom, answered sadly: "I love you so much, Arthur Carrollton, that I would die a hundred deaths could that make me worthy of you, as not long ago I thought I was. But it cannot be. Something terrible has come between us."

"Tell me what it is. Let me share your sorrow," he said; but Maggie only answered: "Not yet, not yet! Let me live where you are a little longer. Then I will tell you all, and go away forever."

This was all the satisfaction he could obtain; but after a time she promised that if he would not mention the subject to her until the first of June, she would then tell him everything; and satisfied with a promise which he knew would be kept, Mr. Carrollton waited impatiently for the appointed time, while Maggie, too, counted each sun as it rose and set, bringing nearer and nearer a trial she so much dreaded.