University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
HESTER AND MAGGIE.

“It is over now,” old Hagar thought, as she laid the
children upon their pillows. “The deed is done, and by
their own hands too. There is nothing left for me now but
a confession, and that I cannot make;” so with a heavy
weight upon her soul, she sat down resolving to keep her
own counsel and abide the consequence, whatever it might
be.

But it wore upon her terribly—that secret—and though
it helped in a measure to divert her mind from dwelling too
much upon her daughter's death, it haunted her continually,
making her a strange, eccentric woman, whom the servants
persisted in calling crazy, while even Madam Conway failed
to comprehend her. Her face, which was always dark, seemed
to have acquired a darker, harder look, while her eyes wore a
wild startled expression, as if she were constantly followed
by some tormenting fear. At first, Mrs. Miller objected to
trusting her with the babe; but when Madam Conway suggested
that the woman who had charge of little Theo
should also take care of Maggie, she fell upon her knees
and begged most piteously that the child might not be taken
from her. Every thing I have ever loved has left me,” said
she, “and I cannot give her up.”

“But they say you are crazy,” answered Madam Conway,
somewhat surprised that Hagar should manifest so much

affection for a child not at all connected to her. “They
say you are crazy, and no one trusts a crazy woman.”

Crazy!” repeated Hagar, half scornfully, “crazy—'tis
not craziness—'tis the trouble—the trouble—that's killing me.
But I'll hide it closer than it's hidden now,” she continued,
“If you'll let her stay; and 'fore Heaven, I swear, that
sooner than harm one hair of Maggie's head, I'd part with
my own life;” and taking the sleeping child in her arms, she
stood like a wild beast at bay.

Madam Conway did not herself really believe in Hagar's
insanity. She had heretofore been perfectly faithful to
whatever was committed to her care, so she bade her be
quiet, saying they would trust her for a time.

“It's the talking to myself,” said Hagar, when left alone.
“It's the talking to myself, which makes them call me
crazy; and though I might talk to many a worse woman
than old Hagar Warren, I'll stop it; I'll be still as the
grave, and when next they gossip about me, it shall be of
something besides my craziness.

So Hagar became suddenly silent, and uncommunicative,
mingling but little with the servants, but staying all day
long in her room, where she watched the children with untiring
care. Especially was she kind to Hester, who as
time passed on, proved to be a puny, sickly thing, never
noticing any one, but moaning frequently as if in pain.
Very tenderly old Hagar nursed her, carrying her often in her
arms, until they ached from very weariness, while Madam
Conway, who watched her with a vigilant eye, complained
that she neglected little Maggie.

“And what if I do?” returned Hagar, somewhat bitterly,
“Ain't there a vast difference between the two? S'pose
Hester was your own flesh and blood, would you think I
could do too much for the poor thing?” And she glanced

compassionately at the poor wasted form, which lay upon
her lap, gasping for breath, and presenting a striking contrast
to the little Maggie, who, in her cradle, was crowing
and laughing in childish glee, at the bright firelight which
blazed upon the hearth.

Maggie was indeed a beautiful child. From her mother
she had inherited the boon of perfect health, and she throve
well in spite of the bumped heads and pinched fingers,
which frequently fell to her lot, when Hagar was too busy
with the feeble child to notice her. The plaything of the
whole house, she was greatly petted by the servants, who
vied with each other in tracing points of resemblance between
her and the Conways; while the grandmother
prided herself particularly on the arched eyebrows, and
finely cut upper lip, which, she said, were sure marks of
high blood, and never found in the lower ranks! With a
most scornful expression on her face, old Hagar would listen
to these remarks, and then, when sure that no one
heard her, she would mutter, “Marks of blood! What
nonsense! I'm almost glad I've solved the riddle, and
know 'taint blood that makes the difference. Just tell her
the truth once, and she'd quickly change her mind. Hester's
blue pinched nose, which makes one think of fits, would be
the very essence of aristocracy, while Maggie's lip would
come of the little Paddy blood there is running in her
veins!”

“And still, Madam Conway herself was not one half so
proud of the bright, playful Maggie, as was old Hagar, who,
when they were alone, would hug her to her bosom, and
gaze fondly on her fair, round face, and locks of silken hair
so like those now resting in the grave. In the meantime
Mrs. Miller, who, since her daughter's birth, had never left
her room, was growing daily weaker, and when Maggie was

nearly nine months old, she died, with the little one folded
to her bosom, just as Hester Hamilton had held it, when,
she, too, passed from earth.

“Doubly blessed,” whispered old Hagar, who was present,
and then when she remembered that to poor little Hester a
mother's blessing would never be given, she felt that her load
of guilt was greater than she could bear. “She will perhaps
forgive me if I confess it to her over Miss Margaret's coffin,”
she thought; and once when they stood together by the
sleeping dead, and Madam Conway, with Maggie in her
arms was bidding the child kiss the clay cold lips of its mother,
old Hagar attempted to tell her. “Could you bear
Miss Margaret's death as well,” she said, “if Maggie, instead
of being bright and playful as she is, were weak and sick,
like Hester?” and her eyes fastened themselves upon Madam
Conway with an agonizing intensity which that lady
could not fathom. “Say, would you bear it as well—could
you love her as much—would you change with me, take
Hester for your own, and give me little Maggie?” she persisted,
and Madam Conway, surprised at her excited manner,
which she attributed in a measure to envy, answered
coldly. “Of course not. Still, if God had seen fit to give
me a child like Hester, I should try to be reconciled, but I
am thankful he has not thus dealt with me.”

“'Tis enough. I am satisfied,” thought Hagar. “She
would not thank me for telling her. The secret shall be
kept;” and half exultingly she anticipated the pride she
should feel in seeing her grand-daughter grown up a lady,
and an heiress.

Anon, however, there came stealing over her a feeling of
remorse, as she reflected that the child defrauded of its birth-right
would, if it lived, be compelled to serve in the capacity
of a servant; and many a night, when all else was silent in

the old stone house, she paced up and down the room, her
long hair, now fast turning grey, falling over her shoulders,
and her large eyes dimmed with tears, as she thought what
the future would bring to the infant she carried in her arms.
But the evil she so much dreaded never came, for when the
winter snows were again falling, they made a little grave
beneath the same pine tree where Hester Hamilton lay
sleeping, and while they dug that grave, old Hagar sat with
folded arms and tearless eyes, gazing fixedly upon the still,
white face, and thin blue lips, which would never again be
distorted with pain. Her habit of talking to herself had
returned, and as she sat there, she would at intervals
whisper, “poor little babe! I would willingly have cared
for you all my life, but I am glad you are gone to Miss Margaret,
who, it may be, will wonder what little thin-faced
angel is calling her mother! But somebody'll introduce you,
somebody'll tell her who you are, and when she knows how
proud her mother is of Maggie, she'll forgive old Hagar
Warren!”

“Gone stark mad!” was the report carried by the servants
to their mistress, who believed the story, when Hagar
herself came to her with the request that Hester might be
buried in some of Maggie's clothes.

Touched with pity by her worn, haggard face, Madam
Conway answered; “yes, take some of her common ones,”
and choosing the cambric robe which Hester had worn on
the morning when the exchange was made, Hagar dressed
the body for the grave. When, at last, everything was
ready and the tiny coffin stood upon the table, Madam
Conway drew near, and looked for a moment on the emaciated
form which rested quietly from all its pain. Hovering
at her side was Hagar, and feeling it her duty to say a
word of comfort, the stately lady remarked, that “'twas

best the babe should die; that were it her grandchild, she
should feel relieved; for had it lived, it would undoubtedly
have been physically and intellectually feeble.”

“Thank you! I am considerably comforted,” was the
cool reply of Hagar, who felt how cruel were the words, and
who for a moment was strongly tempted to claim the beautiful
Maggie as her own, and give back to the cold, proud
woman the senseless clay, on which she looked so calmly.

But love for her grandchild conquered. There was
nothing in the way of her advancement now, and when at
the grave she knelt her down to weep, as the bystanders
thought, over her dead, she was breathing there a vow that
never so long as she lived should the secret of Maggie's
birth be given to the world, unless some circumstance then
unforeseen should make it absolutely and unavoidably necessary.
To see Maggie grow up into a beautiful, refined and
cultivated woman, was now the great object of Hagar's life;
and fearing lest by some inadvertent word or action the
secret should be disclosed, she wished to live by herself,
where naught but the winds of heaven could listen to her
incoherent whisperings, which made her fellow servants
accuse her of insanity.

Down in the deepest shadow of the woods, and distant
from the old stone house nearly a mile, was a half-ruined
cottage which, years before, had been occupied by miners,
who had dug in the hillside for particles of yellow ore, which
they fancied to be gold. Long and frequent were the night
revels said to have been held in the old hut, which had at last
fallen into bad repute and been for years deserted. To one
like Hagar, however, there was nothing intimidating in its
creaking old floors, its rattling windows and noisome chimney,
where the bats and the swallows built their nests; and
when, one day, Madam Conway proposed giving little Maggie

into the charge of a younger and less nervous person than
herself, she made no objection, but surprised her mistress by
asking permission to live by herself in the “cottage by the
mine” as it was called.

“It is better for me to be alone,” said she, “for I may
do something terrible if I stay here, something I would
sooner die than do,” and her eyes fell upon Maggie sleeping
in her cradle.

This satisfied Madam Conway that the half-crazed woman
meditated harm to her favorite grandchild, and she consented
readily to her removal to the cottage, which by her
orders was made comparatively comfortable. For several
weeks, when she came, as she did each day to the house, Madam
Conway kept Maggie carefully from her sight, until at
last she begged so hard to see her, that her wish was gratified;
and as she manifested no disposition whatever to molest
the child, Madam Conway's fears gradually subsided, and
Hagar was permitted to fondle and caress her as often as
she chose.

Here, now, for a time, we leave them; Hagar in her
cottage by the mine; Madam Conway in her gloomy home;
Maggie in her nurse's arms; and Theo, of whom as yet but
little has been said, playing on the nursery floor; while
with our readers we pass silently over a period of time which
shall bring us to Maggie's girlhood.