 | CHAPTER XIX.
THE TELLING OF THE SECRET. Dora Deane, or, The East India uncle; and
Maggie Miller, or, Old Hagar's secret |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.
“Hagar! Hagar!” exclaimed Mag, playfully bounding
to her side, and laying her hand upon her arm; “What aileth
thee, Hagar?”
The words were mete, 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 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
“I did not mean to stay away so 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
Mag 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 Mag had sat with Arthur
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 the 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
Mag, 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 Mag,
half playfully; and turning around, 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, Mag 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, Mag, 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 shrivelled, 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, she had
ash which grew on her native hills, she stood before her,
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 'tis—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 heart-broken 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 found woman who had cherished her so
tenderly—neither were 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
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
shrivelled, skinny hag, who tells you this, am your own grandmother.”
For a long time she lay there thus, weeping till
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, be-draggled 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 ain't;
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 were passed, she was raving with delirium,
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 hated
her,” she said, “hated her for what she could not help;”
and when, as he often did, he came to her bedside, speaking
to her 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 it 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
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
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've 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 fibre 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 of 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.
| CHAPTER XIX.
THE TELLING OF THE SECRET. Dora Deane, or, The East India uncle; and
Maggie Miller, or, Old Hagar's secret | |