Maggie Miller by Mary J. Holmes

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MAGGIE MILLER.

THE STORY OF OLD HAGAR'S SECRET.

By MARY J. HOLMES,

Author of "Lena Rivers," "Tempest and Sunshine," "English Orphans,"
"Dora Deane," etc., etc.

"Lead us not into temptation."

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL

II. HAGAR'S SECRET

III. HESTER AND MAGGIE

IV. GIRLHOOD

V. TRIFLES

VI. THE JUNIOR PARTNER

VII. THE SENIOR PARTNER

VIII. STARS AND STRIPES

IX. ROSE WARNER

X. EXPECTED GUESTS

XI. UNEXPECTED GUESTS

XII. THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED

XIII. SOCIETY

XIV. MADAM CONWAY'S DISASTERS

XV. ARTHUR CARROLLTON AND MAGGIE

XVI. PERPLEXITY

XVII. BROTHER AND SISTER

XVIII. THE PEDDLER

XIX. THE TELLING OF THE SECRET

XX. THE RESULT

XXI. THE SISTERS

XXII. THE HOUSE OF MOURNING

XXIII. NIAGARA

XXIV. HOME

XXV. HAGAR

XXVI. AUGUST EIGHTEENTH, 1858

MAGGIE MILLER.

CHAPTER I.

THE OLD HOUSE BY THE MILL.

'Mid the New England hills, and beneath the shadow of their dim old
woods, is a running brook whose deep waters were not always as merry
and frolicsome as now; for years before our story opens, pent up and
impeded in their course, they dashed angrily against their prison
walls, and turned the creaking wheel of an old sawmill with a sullen,
rebellious roar. The mill has gone to decay, and the sturdy men who
fed it with the giant oaks of the forest are sleeping quietly in the
village graveyard. The waters of the mill-pond, too, relieved from
their confinement, leap gayly over the ruined dam, tossing for a
moment in wanton glee their locks of snow-white foam, and then flowing
on, half fearfully as it were, through the deep gorge overhung with
the hemlock and the pine, where the shadows of twilight ever lie, and
where the rocks frown gloomily down upon the stream below, which,
emerging from the darkness, loses itself at last in the waters of the
gracefully winding Chicopee, and leaves far behind the moss-covered
walls of what is familiarly known as the "Old House by the Mill."

'Tis a huge, old-fashioned building, distant nearly a mile from the
public highway, and surrounded so thickly by forest trees that the
bright sunlight, dancing merrily midst the rustling leaves above,
falls but seldom on the time-stained walls of dark gray stone, where
the damp and dews of more than a century have fallen, and where now
the green moss clings with a loving grasp, as if 'twere its rightful
resting-place. When the thunders of the Revolution shook the hills of
the Bay State, and the royal banner floated in the evening breeze,
the house was owned by an old Englishman who, loyal to his king and
country, denounced as rebels the followers of Washington. Against
these, however, he would not raise his hand, for among them were many
long-tried friends who had gathered with him around the festal board;
so he chose the only remaining alternative, and went back to his
native country, cherishing the hope that he should one day return to
the home he loved so well, and listen again to the musical flow of the
brook, which could be distinctly heard from the door of the mansion.
But his wish was vain, for when at last America was free and the
British troops recalled, he slept beneath the sod of England, and the
old house was for many years deserted. The Englishman had been greatly
beloved, and his property was unmolested, while the weeds and grass
grew tall and rank in the garden beds, and the birds of heaven built
their nests beneath the projecting roof or held a holiday in the
gloomy, silent rooms.

As time passed on, however, and no one appeared to dispute their
right, different families occupied the house at intervals, until at
last, when nearly fifty years had elapsed, news was one day received
that Madam Conway, a granddaughter of the old Englishman, having met
with reverses at home, had determined to emigrate to the New World,
and remembering the "House by the Mill," of which she had heard so
much, she wished to know if peaceable possession of it would be
allowed her, in case she decided upon removing thither and making it
her future home. To this plan no objection was made, for the aged
people of Hillsdale still cherished the memory of the hospitable old
man whose locks were gray while they were yet but children, and the
younger portion of the community hoped for a renewal of the gayeties
which they had heard were once so common at the old stone house.

But in this they were disappointed, for Madam Conway was a proud,
unsociable woman, desiring no acquaintance whatever with her
neighbors, who, after many ineffectual attempts at something like
friendly intercourse, concluded to leave her entirely alone, and
contented themselves with watching the progress of matters at "Mill
Farm," as she designated the place, which soon began to show visible
marks of improvement. The Englishman was a man of taste, and Madam
Conway's first work was an attempt to restore the grounds to something
of their former beauty. The yard and garden were cleared of weeds,
the walks and flower-beds laid out with care, and then the neighbors
looked to see her cut away a few of the multitude of trees which had
sprung up around her home. But this she had no intention of doing.
"They shut me out," she said, "from the prying eyes of the vulgar, and
I would rather it should be so." So the trees remained, throwing their
long shadows upon the high, narrow windows, and into the large square
rooms, where the morning light and the noonday heat seldom found
entrance, and which seemed like so many cold, silent caverns, with
their old-fashioned massive furniture, their dark, heavy curtains, and
the noiseless footfall of the stately lady, who moved ever with the
same measured tread, speaking always softly and low to the household
servants, who, having been trained in her service, had followed her
across the sea.

From these the neighbors learned that Madam Conway had in London
a married daughter, Mrs. Miller; that old Hagar Warren, the
strange-looking woman who more than anyone else shared her mistress'
confidence, had grown up in the family, receiving a very good
education, and had nursed their young mistress, Miss Margaret, which
of course entitled her to more respect than was usually bestowed upon
menials like her; that Madam Conway was very aristocratic, very proud
of her high English blood; that though she lived alone she attended
strictly to all the formalities of high life, dressing each day with
the utmost precision for her solitary dinner--dining off a service
of solid silver, and presiding with great dignity in her straight,
high-backed chair. She was fond, too, of the ruby wine, and her cellar
was stored with the choicest liquors, some of which she had brought
with her from home, while others, it was said, had belonged to
her grandfather, and for half a century had remained unseen and
unmolested, while the cobwebs of time had woven around them a misty
covering, making them still more valuable to the lady, who knew full
well how age improved such things.

Regularly each day she rode in her ponderous carriage, sometimes alone
and sometimes accompanied by Hester, the daughter of old Hagar, a
handsome, intelligent-looking girl, who, after two or three years
of comparative idleness at Mill Farm, went to Meriden, Conn., as
seamstress in a family which had advertised for such a person. With
her departed the only life of the house, and during the following year
there ensued a monotonous quiet, which was broken at last for Hagar by
the startling announcement that her daughter's young mistress had died
four months before, and the husband, a gray-haired, elderly man, had
proved conclusively that he was in his dotage by talking of marriage
to Hester, who, ere the letter reached her mother, would probably be
the third bride of one whose reputed wealth was the only possible
inducement to a girl like Hester Warren.

With an immense degree of satisfaction Hagar read the letter through,
exulting that fortune had favored her at last. Possessed of many
sterling qualities, Hagar Warren had one glaring fault, which had
imbittered her whole life. Why others were rich while she was poor she
could not understand, and her heart rebelled at the fate which had
made her what she was.

But Hester would be wealthy--nay, would perhaps one day rival the
haughty Mrs. Miller across the water, who had been her playmate; there
was comfort in that, and she wrote to her daughter expressing her
entire approbation, and hinting vaguely of the possibility that she
herself might some time cease to be a servant, and help do the honors
of Mr. Hamilton's house! To this there came no reply, and Hagar was
thinking seriously of making a visit to Meriden, when one rainy
autumnal night, nearly a year after Hester's marriage, there came
another letter sealed with black. With a sad foreboding Hagar opened
it, and read that Mr. Hamilton had failed; that his house and farm
were sold, and that he, overwhelmed with mortification both at his
failure and the opposition of his friends to his last marriage, had
died suddenly, leaving Hester with no home in the wide world unless
Madam Conway received her again into her family.

"Just my luck!" was Hagar's mental comment, as she finished reading
the letter and carried it to her mistress, who had always liked
Hester, and who readily consented to give her a home, provided she put
on no airs from having been for a time the wife of a reputed wealthy
man. "Mustn't put on airs!" muttered Hagar, as she left the room.
"Just as if airs wasn't for anybody but high bloods!" And with the
canker-worm of envy at her heart she wrote to Hester, who came
immediately; and Hagar--when she heard her tell the story of her
wrongs, how her husband's sister, indignant at his marriage with a
sewing-girl, had removed from him the children, one a stepchild and
one his own, and how of all his vast fortune there was not left for
her a penny--experienced again the old bitterness of feeling, and
murmured that fate should thus deal with her and hers.

With the next day's mail there came to Madam Conway a letter bearing
a foreign postmark, and bringing the sad news that her son-in-law had
been lost in a storm while crossing the English Channel, and that
her daughter Margaret, utterly crushed and heartbroken, would sail
immediately for America, where she wished only to lay her weary head
upon her mother's bosom and die.

"So there is one person that has no respect for blood, and that is
Death," said old Hagar to her mistress, when she heard the news. "He
has served us both alike, he has taken my son-in-law first and yours
next."

Frowning haughtily, Madam Conway bade her be silent, telling her at
the same time to see that the rooms in the north part of the building
were put in perfect order for Mrs. Miller, who would probably come in
the next vessel. In sullen silence Hagar withdrew, and for several
days worked half reluctantly in the "north rooms," as Madam Conway
termed a comparatively pleasant, airy suite of apartments, with a
balcony above, which looked out upon the old mill-dam and the brook
pouring over it.

"There'll be big doings when my lady comes," said Hagar one day to her
daughter. "It'll be Hagar here, and Hagar there, and Hagar everywhere,
but I shan't hurry myself. I'm getting too old to wait on a chit like
her."

"Don't talk so, mother," said Hester. "Margaret was always kind to me.
She is not to blame for being rich, while I am poor."

"But somebody's to blame," interrupted old Hagar. "You was always
accounted the handsomest and cleverest of the two, and yet for all
you'll be nothing but a drudge to wait on her and the little girl."

Hester only sighed in reply, while her thoughts went forward to
the future and what it would probably bring her. Hester Warren and
Margaret Conway had been children together, and in spite of the
difference of their stations they had loved each other dearly; and
when at last the weary traveler came, with her pale sad face and
mourning garb, none gave her so heartfelt a welcome as Hester; and
during the week when, from exhaustion and excitement, she was confined
to her bed, it was Hester who nursed her with the utmost care,
soothing her to sleep, and then amusing the little Theo, a child
of two years. Hagar, too, softened by her young mistress' sorrow,
repented of her harsh words, and watched each night with the invalid,
who once, when her mind seemed wandering far back in the past,
whispered softly, "Tell me the Lord's prayer, dear Hagar, just as you
told it to me years ago when I was a little child."

It was a long time since Hagar had breathed that prayer, but at Mrs.
Miller's request she commenced it, repeating it correctly until she
came to the words, "Give us this day our daily bread"; then she
hesitated, and bending forward said, "What comes next, Miss Margaret?
Is it 'Lead us not into temptation?"

"Yes, yes," whispered the half-unconscious lady. "'Lead us not into
temptation,' that's it." Then, as if there were around her a dim
foreboding of the great wrong Hagar was to do, she took her old
nurse's hand between her own, and continued, "Say it often, Hagar,
'Lead us not into temptation'; you have much need for that prayer."

A moment more, and Margaret Miller slept, while beside her sat Hagar
Warren, half shuddering, she knew not why, as she thought of her
mistress' words, which seemed to her so much like the spirit of
prophecy.

"Why do I need that prayer more than anyone else?" she said at last.
"I have never been tempted more than I could bear--never shall be
tempted--and if I am, old Hagar Warren, bad as she is, can resist
temptation without that prayer."

Still, reason as she would, Hagar could not shake off the strange
feeling, and as she sat half dozing in her chair, with the dim
lamplight flickering over her dark face, she fancied that the October
wind, sighing so mournfully through the locust trees beneath the
window, and then dying away in the distance, bore upon its wing,
"'Lead us not into temptation.' Hagar, you have much need to say that
prayer."

Aye, Hagar Warren--much need, much need!

CHAPTER II

HAGAR'S SECRET.

The wintry winds were blowing cold and chill around the old stone
house, and the deep untrodden snow lay highly piled upon the ground.
For many days the gray, leaden clouds had frowned gloomily down upon
the earth below, covering it with a thick veil of white. But the storm
was over now; with the setting sun it had gone to rest, and the pale
moonlight stole softly into the silent chamber, where Madam Conway
bent anxiously down to see if but the faintest breath came from the
parted lips of her only daughter. There had been born to her that
night another grandchild--a little, helpless girl, which now in an
adjoining room was Hagar's special care; and Hagar, sitting there with
the wee creature upon her lap, and the dread fear at her heart that
her young mistress might die, forgot for once to repine at her lot,
and did cheerfully whatever was required of her to do.

There was silence in the rooms below--silence in the chambers
above,--silence everywhere,--for the sick woman seemed fast nearing
the deep, dark river whose waters move onward, but never return.

Almost a week went by, and then, in a room far more humble than where
Margaret Miller lay, another immortal being was given to the world;
and, with a softened light in her keen black eyes, old Hagar told to
her stately mistress, when she met her on the stair, that she too was
a grandmother.

"You must not on that account neglect Margaret's child," was Madam
Conway's answer, as with a wave of her hand she passed on; and this
was all she said--not a word of sympathy or congratulation for the
peculiar old woman whose heart, so long benumbed, had been roused to
a better state of feeling, and who in the first joy of her newborn
happiness had hurried to her mistress, fancying for the moment that
she was almost her equal.

"Don't neglect Margaret's child for that!" How the words rang in her
ears as she fled up the narrow stairs and through the dark hall, till
the low room was reached where lay the babe for whom Margaret's child
was not to be neglected. All the old bitterness had returned, and as
hour after hour went by, and Madam Conway came not near, while the
physician and the servants looked in for a moment only and then
hurried away to the other sickroom, where all their services were kept
in requisition, she muttered: "Little would they care if Hester died
upon my hands. And she will die too," she continued, as by the fading
daylight she saw the pallor deepen on her daughter's face.

And Hagar was right, for Hester's sands were nearer run than those of
Mrs. Miller. The utmost care might not, perhaps, have saved her; but
the matter was not tested; and when the long clock at the head of the
stairs struck the hour of midnight she murmured: "It is getting dark
here, mother--so dark--and I am growing cold. Can it be death?"

"Yes, Hester, 'tis death," answered Hagar, and her voice was
unnaturally calm as she laid her hand on the clammy brow of her
daughter.

An hour later, and Madam Conway, who sat dozing in the parlor below,
ready for any summons which might come from Margaret's room, was
roused by the touch of a cold, hard hand, and Hagar Warren stood
before her.

"Come," she said, "come with me;" and, thinking only of Margaret,
Madam Conway arose to follow her. "Not there--but this way," said
Hagar, as her mistress turned towards Mrs. Miller's door, and grasping
firmly the lady's arm she led to the room where Hester lay dead, with
her young baby clasped lovingly to her bosom. "Look at her--and pity
me now, if you never did before. She was all I had in the world to
love," said Hagar passionately.

Madam Conway was not naturally a hard-hearted woman, and she answered
gently: "I do pity you, Hagar, and I did not think Hester was so ill.
Why haven't you let me know?" To this Hagar made no direct reply, and
after a few more inquiries Madam Conway left the room, saying she
would send up the servants to do whatever was necessary. When it was
known throughout the house that Hester was dead much surprise was
expressed and a good deal of sympathy manifested for old Hagar, who,
with a gloomy brow, hugged to her heart the demon of jealousy, which
kept whispering to her of the difference there would be were Margaret
to die. It was deemed advisable to keep Hester's death a secret from
Mrs. Miller; so, with as little ceremony as possible, the body was
buried at the close of the day, in an inclosure which had been set
apart as a family burying-ground; and when again the night shadows
fell Hagar Warren sat in her silent room, brooding over her grief, and
looking oft at the plain pine cradle where lay the little motherless
child, her granddaughter. Occasionally, too, her eye wandered towards
the mahogany crib, where another infant slept. Perfect quiet seemed
necessary for Mrs. Miller, and Madam Conway had ordered her baby to
be removed from the antechamber where first it had been kept, so that
Hagar had the two children in her own room.

In the pine cradle there was a rustling sound; the baby was awaking,
and taking it upon her lap Hagar soothed it again to sleep, gazing
earnestly upon it to see if it were like its mother. It was a bright,
healthy-looking infant, and though five days younger than that of Mrs.
Miller was quite as large and looked as old.

"And you will be a drudge, while she will be a lady," muttered Hagar,
as her tears fell on the face of the sleeping child. "Why need this
difference be?"

Old Hagar had forgotten the words "Lead us not into temptation"; and
when the Tempter answered, "It need not be," she only started suddenly
as if smitten by a heavy blow; but she did not drive him from her, and
she sat there reasoning with herself that "it need not be." Neither
the physician nor Madam Conway had paid any attention to Margaret's
child; it had been her special care, while no one had noticed hers,
and newly born babies were so much alike that deception was an easy
matter. But could she do it? Could she bear that secret on her soul?
Madam Conway, though proud, had been kind to her, and could she thus
deceive her! Would her daughter, sleeping in her early grave, approve
the deed. "No, no," she answered aloud, "she would not!" and the great
drops of perspiration stood thick upon her dark, haggard face as she
arose and laid back in her cradle the child whom she had thought to
make an heiress.

For a time the Tempter left her, but returned ere long, and creeping
into her heart sung to her beautiful songs of the future which might
be were Hester's baby a lady. And Hagar, listening to that song,
fell asleep, dreaming that the deed was done by other agency than
hers--that the little face resting on the downy pillow, and shaded
by the costly lace, was lowly born; while the child wrapped in the
coarser blanket came of nobler blood, even that of the Conways, who
boasted more than one lordly title. With a nervous start she awoke
at last, and creeping to the cradle of mahogany looked to see if her
dream were true; but it was not. She knew it by the pinched, blue
look about the nose, and the thin covering of hair. This was all the
difference which even her eye could see, and probably no other person
had noticed that, for the child had never been seen save in a darkened
room.

The sin was growing gradually less heinous, and she could now calmly
calculate the chances for detection. Still, the conflict was long and
severe, and it was not until morning that the Tempter gained a point
by compromising the matter, and suggesting that while dressing the
infants she should change their clothes for once, just to see how
fine cambrics and soft flannels would look upon a grandchild of Hagar
Warren! "I can easily change them again--it is only an experiment,"
she said, as with trembling hands she proceeded to divest the children
of their wrappings. But her fingers seemed all thumbs, and more than
one sharp pin pierced the tender flesh of her little grandchild as she
fastened together the embroidered slip, teaching her thus early, had
she been able to learn the lesson, that the pathway of the rich is not
free from thorns.

Their toilet was completed at last--their cradle beds exchanged; and
then, with a strange, undefined feeling, old Hagar stood back and
looked to see how the little usurper became her new position. She
became it well, and to Hagar's partial eyes it seemed more meet that
she should lie there beneath the silken covering than the other one,
whose nose looked still more pinched and blue in the plain white dress
and cradle of pine. Still, there was a gnawing pain at Hagar's heart,
and she would perhaps have undone the wrong had not Madam Conway
appeared with inquiries for the baby's health. Hagar could not face
her mistress, so she turned away and pretended to busy herself with
the arrangement of the room, while the lady, bending over the cradle,
said, "I think she is improving, Hagar; I never saw her look so well";
and she pushed back the window curtain to obtain a better view.

With a wild, startled look in her eye, Hagar held her breath to hear
what might come next, but her fears were groundless; for, in her
anxiety for her daughter, Madam Conway had heretofore scarcely seen
her grandchild, and had no suspicion now that the sleeper before her
was of plebeian birth, nor yet that the other little one, at whom she
did not deign to look, was bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh.
She started to leave the room, but, impelled by some sudden impulse,
turned back and stooped to kiss the child. Involuntarily old Hagar
sprang forward to stay the act, and grasped the lady's arm, but she
was too late; the aristocratic lips had touched the cheek of Hagar
Warren's grandchild, and the secret, if now confessed, would never be
forgiven.

"It can't be helped," muttered Hagar, and then, when Mrs. Conway asked
an explanation of her conduct, she answered, "I was afraid you'd wake
her up, and mercy knows I've had worry enough with both the brats."

Not till then had Madam Conway observed how haggard and worn was
Hagar's face, and instead of reproving her for her boldness she said
gently: "You have indeed been sorely tried! Shall I send up Bertha to
relieve you!"

"No, no," answered Hagar hurriedly, "I am better alone."

The next moment Madam Conway was moving silently down the narrow
hall, while Hagar on her knees was weeping passionately. One word of
kindness had effected more than a thousand reproaches would have done;
and wringing her hands she cried, "I will not do it; I cannot."

Approaching the cradle, she was about to lift the child, when again
Madam Conway was at the door. She had come, she said, to take the babe
to Margaret, who seemed better this morning, and had asked to see it.

"Not now, not now. Wait till I put on her a handsomer dress, and I'll
bring her myself," pleaded Hagar.

But Madam Conway saw no fault in the fine cambric wrapper, and
taking the infant in her arms she walked away, while Hagar followed
stealthily. Very lovingly the mother folded to her bosom the babe,
calling it her fatherless one, and wetting its face with her tears,
while through the half-closed door peered Hagar's wild dark eyes--one
moment lighting up with exultation as she muttered, "It's my flesh,
my blood, proud lady!" and the next growing dim with tears, as she
thought of the evil she had done.

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