CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PEDDLER.
It was a rainy April day—a day which precluded all outdoor exercise, and Hagar Warren, from the window of her lonely cabin, watched in vain for the coming of Maggie Miller. It was now more than a week since she had been there, for both Arthur Carrollton and herself had accompanied the disappointed Anna Jeffrey to New York, going with her on board the vessel which was to take her from a country she affected so to dislike.
"I dare say you'll be Maggie somebody else ere I meet you again," she said to Maggie, at parting, and Mr. Carrollton, on the journey home, found it hard to keep from asking her if for the "somebody else" she would substitute his name, and so be "Maggie Carrollton."
This, however, he did not do; but his attentions were so marked, and his manner towards her so affectionate, that ere Hillsdale was reached there was in Maggie's mind no longer a doubt as to the nature of his feelings toward her. Arrived at home, he kept her constantly at his side, while Hagar, who was suffering from a slight attack of rheumatism, and could not go up to the stone house, waited and watched, thinking herself almost willing to be teased for the secret, if she could once more hear the sound of Maggie's voice. The secret, however, had been forgotten in the exciting scenes through which Maggie had passed since first she learned of its existence; and it was now a long time since she had mentioned it to Hagar, who each day grew more and more determined never to reveal it.
"My life is almost ended," she thought, "and the secret shall go with me to my grave. Margaret will be happier without it, and it shall not be revealed."
Thus she reasoned on that rainy afternoon, when she sat waiting for Maggie, who, she heard, had returned the day before. Slowly the hours dragged on, and the night shadows fell at last upon the forest trees, creeping into the corners of Hagar's room, resting upon the hearthstone, falling upon the window pane, creeping up the wall, and affecting Hagar with a nameless fear of some impending evil. This fear not even the flickering flame of the lamp, which she lighted at last and placed upon the mantel, was able to dispel, for the shadows grew darker, folding themselves around her heart, until she covered her eyes with her hands, lest some goblin shape should spring into life before her.
The sound of the gate latch was heard, and footsteps were approaching the door—not the bounding step of Maggie, but a tramping tread, followed by a heavy knock, and next moment a tall, heavy-built man appeared before her, asking shelter for the night. The pack he carried showed him at once to be a peddler, and upon a nearer view Hagar recognized in him a stranger who, years before, had craved her hospitality. He had been civil to her then; she did not fear him now, and she consented to his remaining, thinking his presence there might dispel the mysterious terror hanging around her. But few words passed between them that night, for Martin, as he called himself, was tired, and after partaking of the supper that she prepared he retired to rest. The next morning, however, he was more talkative, kindly enlightening her with regard to his business, his family, and his place of residence, which last he said was in Meriden, Conn.
It was a long time since Hagar had heard that name, and now, turning quickly towards him, she said, "Meriden? That is where my Hester lived, and where her husband died."
"I want to know!" returned the Yankee peddler. "What might have been his name?"
"Hamilton—Nathan Hamilton. Did you know him? He died nineteen years ago this coming summer."
"Egzactly!" ejaculated the peddler, setting down his pack and himself taking a chair, preparatory to a long talk. "Egzactly; I knowed him like a book. Old Squire Hampleton, the biggest man in Meriden, and you don't say his last wife, that tall, handsome gal, was your darter?"
"Yes, she was my daughter," answered Hagar, her whole face glowing with the interest she felt in talking for the first time in her life with one who had known her daughter's husband, Maggie's father. "You knew her. You have seen her?" she continued; and Martin answered, "Seen her a hundred times, I'll bet. Anyhow, I sold her the weddin' gown; and now, I think on't, she favored you. She was a likely person, and I allus thought that proud sister of his'n, the Widder Warner, might have been in better business than takin' them children away as she did, because he married his hired gal. But it's as well for them, I s'pose, particularly for the boy, who is one of the fust young men in Wooster now. Keeps a big store!"
"Warner, Warner!" interrupted old Hagar, the nameless terror of the night before creeping again into her heart. "Whose name did you say was Warner?"
"The hull on 'em, boy, girl, and all, is called Warner now—one Rose, and t'other Henry," answered the peddler, perfectly delighted with the interest manifested by his auditor, who, grasping at the bedpost and moving her hand rapidly before her eyes, as if to clear away a mist which had settled there, continued, "I remember now, Hester told me of the children; but one, she said, was a stepchild—that was the boy, wasn't it?" and her wild, black eyes had in them a look of unutterable anxiety, wholly incomprehensible to the peddler, who, instead of answering her question said: "What ails you woman? Your face is as white as a piece of paper?"
"Thinking of Hester always affects me so," she answered; and stretching her hands beseechingly towards him, she entreated him to say if Henry were not the stepchild.
"No marm, he warn't," answered the peddler, who, like a great many talkative people, pretended to know more than he really did, and who in this particular instance was certainly mistaken. "I can tell you egzactly how that is: Henry was the son of Mr. Hampleton's first marriage—Henry Hampleton. The second wife, the one your darter lived with, was the Widder Warner, and had a little gal, Rose, when she married Mr. Hampleton. This Widder Warner's husband's brother married Mr. Hampleton's sister, the woman who took the children, and had Henry change his name to Warner. The Hampletons and Warners were mighty big-feelin' folks, and the old squire's match mortified 'em dreadfully."
"Where are they now?" gasped Hagar, hoping there might be some mistake.
"There you've got me!" answered Martin. "I haven't seen 'em this dozen year; but the last I heard, Miss Warner and Rose was livin' in Leominster, and Henry was in a big store in Wooster. But what the plague is the matter?" he continued, alarmed at the expression of Hagar's face, as well as at the strangeness of her manner.
Wringing her hands as if she would wrench her fingers from their sockets, she clutched at her long white hair, and, rocking to and fro, moaned, "Woe is me, and woe the day when I was born!"
From everyone save her grandmother Margaret had kept the knowledge of her changed feelings towards Henry Warner; and looking upon a marriage between the two as an event surely to be expected, old Hagar was overwhelmed with grief and fear. Falling at last upon her knees, she cried: "Had you cut my throat from ear to ear, old man, you could not have hurt me more! Oh, that I had died years and years ago! But I must live now—live!" she screamed, springing to her feet—"live to prevent the wrong my own wickedness has caused!"
Perfectly astonished at what he saw and heard, the peddler attempted to question her, but failing to obtain any satisfactory answers he finally left, mentally pronouncing her "as crazy as a loon." This opinion was confirmed by the people on whom he next called, for, chancing to speak of Hagar, he was told that nothing which she did or said was considered strange, as she had been called insane for years. This satisfied Martin, who made no further mention of her, and thus the scandal which his story might otherwise have produced was prevented.
In the meantime on her face lay old Hagar, moaning bitterly. "My sin has found me out; and just when I thought it never need be known! For myself I do not care; but Maggie, Maggie—how can I tell her that she is bone of my bone, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh—and me old Hagar Warren!"
It would be impossible to describe the scorn and intense loathing concentrated in the tones of Hagar's voice as she uttered these last words, "and me old Hagar Warren!" Had she indeed been the veriest wretch on earth, she could not have hated herself more than she did in that hour of her humiliation, when, with a loud voice, she cried, "Let me die, oh, let me die, and it will never be known!" Then, as she reflected upon the terrible consequence which would ensue were she to die and make no sign, she wrung her hands despairingly, crying: "Life, life—yes, give me life to tell her of my guilt; and then it will be a blessed rest to die. Oh, Margaret, my precious child, I'd give my heart's blood, drop by drop, to save you; but it can't be; you must not wed your father's son; oh, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!"
Fainter and fainter grew each succeeding word, and when the last was spoken she fell again upon her face, unconscious and forgetful of her woe. Higher and higher in the heavens rose the morning sun, stealing across the window sill, and shining aslant the floor, where Hagar still lay in a deep, deathlike swoon. An hour passed on, and then the wretched woman came slowly back to life, her eyes lighting up with joy, as she whispered, "It was a dream, thank Heaven, 'twas a dream!" and then growing dim with tears, as the dread reality came over her. The first fearful burst of grief was passed, for Hagar now could weep, and tears did her good, quelling the feverish agony at her heart. Not for herself did she suffer so much as for Maggie, trembling for the effect the telling of the secret would have on her. For it must be told. She knew that full well, and as the sun fast neared the western horizon, she murmured, "Oh, will she come to-night, will she come to-night?"
Yes, Hagar, she will. Even now her feet, which, when they backward turn, will tread less joyously, are threading the woodland path. The halfway rock is reached—nearer and nearer she comes—her shadow falls across the floor—her hand is on your arm—her voice in your ear—Maggie Miller is at your side—Heaven help you both!