Maggie Miller Part 20

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 G.o.d 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.

CHAPTER XX.

THE RESULT.

Two days only remained ere the first of June, and in the solitude of her chamber Maggie was weeping bitterly. "How can I tell them who I am?" she thought. "How bear their pitying scorn, when they learn that she whom they call Maggie Miller has no right to that name?--that Hagar Warren's blood is flowing in her veins?--and Madam Conway thinks so much of that! Oh, why was Hagar left to do me this great wrong? why did she take me from the pine-board cradle where she says I lay, and make me what I was not born to be?" and, falling on her knees, the wretched girl prayed that it might prove a dream from which she would ere long awake.

Alas for thee, poor Maggie Miller! It is not a dream, but a stern reality; and you who oft have spurned at birth and family, why murmur now when both are taken from you? Are you not still the same,--beautiful,--accomplished, and refined,--and can you ask for more? Strange that theory and practice so seldom should accord. And yet it was not the degradation which Maggie felt so keenly, it was rather the loss of love she feared; without that the blood of royalty could not avail to make her happy.

Maggie was a warm-hearted girl, and she loved the stately lady she had been wont to call her grandmother with a filial, clinging love which could not be severed, and still this love was naught compared to what she felt for Arthur Carrollton, and the giving up of him was the hardest part of all. But it must be done, she thought; he had told her once that were she Hagar Warren's grandchild he should not be riding with her--how much less, then, would he make that child his wife! and rather than meet the look of proud disdain on his face when first she stood confessed before him, she resolved to go away where no one had ever heard of her or Hagar Warren. She would leave behind a letter telling why she went, and commending to Madam Conway's care poor Hagar, who had been sorely punished for her sin. "But whither shall I go, and what shall I do when I get there?" she cried, trembling at the thoughts of a world of which she knew so little. Then, as she remembered how many young girls of her age went out as teachers, she determined to go at all events. "It will be better than staying here where I have no claim," she thought; and, nerving herself for the task, she sat down to write the letter which, on the first of June, should tell to Madam Conway and Arthur Carrollton the story of her birth.

It was a harder task than she supposed, the writing that farewell, for it seemed like severing every hallowed tie. Three times she wrote "My dear grandma," then with a throb of anguish she dashed her pen across the revered name, and wrote simply "Madam Conway." It was a rambling, impa.s.sioned letter, full of tender love--of hope destroyed--of deep despair--and though it shadowed forth no expectation that Madam Conway or Mr. Carrollton would ever take her to their hearts again, it begged of them most touchingly to think sometimes of "Maggie" when she was gone forever. Hagar was then commended to Madam Conway's forgiveness and care. "She is old," wrote Maggie, "her life is nearly ended, and if you have in your heart one feeling of pity for her who used to call you grandma, bestow it, I pray you, on poor old Hagar Warren."

The letter was finished, and then suddenly remembering Hagar's words, that "all had not been told," and feeling it her duty to see once more the woman who had brought her so much sorrow, Maggie stole cautiously from the house, and was soon walking down the woodland road, slowly, sadly, for the world had changed to her since last she trod that path.

Maggie, too, was changed, and when at last she stood before Hagar, who was now able to sit up, the latter could scarcely recognize in the pale, haggard woman the blooming, merry-hearted girl once known as Maggie Miller.

"Margaret!" she cried, "you have come again--come to forgive your poor old grand--No, no," she added, as she saw the look of pain flash over Maggie's face, "I'll never insult you with that name. Only say that you forgive me, will you, Miss Margaret?" and the trembling voice was choked with sobs, while the aged form shook as with a palsied stroke.

Hagar had been ill. Exposure to the damp air on that memorable night had brought on a second severe attack of rheumatism, which had bent her nearly double. Anxiety for Margaret, too, had wasted her to a skeleton, and her thin, sharp face, now of a corpse-like pallor, contrasted strangely with her eyes, from which the wildness all was gone. Touched with pity, Maggie drew a chair to her side, and thus replied: "I do forgive you, Hagar, for I know that what you did was done in love; but by telling me what you have you've ruined all my hopes of happiness. In the new scenes to which I go, and the new a.s.sociations I shall form, I may become contented with my lot, but never can I forget that I once was Maggie Miller."

"Magaret," gasped Hagar, and in her dim eye there was something of its olden fire, "if by new a.s.sociations you mean Henry Warner, it must not be. Alas, that I should tell this! but Henry is your brother--your father's only son. Oh, horror! horror!" and dreading what Margaret would say, she covered her face with her cramped, distorted hands.

But Margaret was not so much affected as Hagar had antic.i.p.ated. She had suffered severely, and could not now be greatly moved. There was an involuntary shudder as she thought of her escape, and then her next feeling was one of satisfaction in knowing that she was not quite friendless and alone, for Henry would protect her, and Rose, indeed, would be to her a sister.

"Henry Warner my brother!" she exclaimed; "how came you by this knowledge?" And very briefly Hagar explained to her what she knew, saying that Hester had told her of two young children, but she had forgotten entirely of their existence, and now that she was reminded of it she could not help fancying that Hester said the stepchild was a boy. But the peddler knew, of course, and she must have forgotten.

"When the baby they thought was you died," said Hagar, "I wrote to the minister in Meriden, telling him of it, but I did not sign my name, and I thought that was the last I should ever hear of it. Why don't you curse me?" she continued. "Haven't I taken from you your intended husband, as well as your name?"

Maggie understood perfectly now why the secret had been revealed, and involuntarily she exclaimed, "Oh, had I told you first, this never need have been!" and then hurriedly she explained to the repentant Hagar how at the very moment when the dread confession was made she, Maggie Miller, was free from Henry Warner.

From the window Maggie saw in the distance the servant who had charge of Hagar, and, dreading the presence of a third person, she arose to go. Offering her hand to Hagar, she said: "Good-by. I may never see you again, but if I do not, remember that I forgive you freely."

"You are not going away, Maggie. Oh, are you going away!" and the crippled arms were stretched imploringly towards Maggie, who answered: "Yes, Hagar, I must go. Honor requires me to tell Madam Conway who I am, and after that you know that I can not stay. I shall go to my brother."

Three times old Hagar essayed to speak, and at last between a whisper and a moan, she found strength to say: "Will you kiss me once, Maggie darling? 'Twill be something to remember, in the lonesome nights when I am all alone. Just once, Maggie! Will you?"

Maggie could not refuse, and gliding to the bowed woman's side she put back the soft hair from off the wrinkled brow, and left there token of her forgiveness.

The last May sun had set, and ere the first June morning rose Maggie Miller would be nowhere found in the home her presence had made so bright. Alone, with no eye upon her save that of the Most High, she had visited the two graves, and, while her heart was bleeding at every pore, had wept her last adieu over the sleeping dust so long held sacred as her mother's. Then kneeling at the other grave, she murmured, "Forgive me, Hester Hamilton, if in this parting hour my heart clings most to her whose memory I was first taught to revere; and if in the better world you know and love each other--oh, will both bless and pity me, poor, wretched Maggie Miller!"

Softly the night air moved through the pine that overshadowed the humble grave, while the moonlight, flashing from the tall marble, which stood a sentinel over the other mound, bathed Maggie's upturned face as with a flood of glory, and her throbbing heart grew still as if indeed at that hushed moment the two mothers had come to bless their child. The parting with the dead was over, and Margaret sat again in her room, waiting until all was still about the old stone house. She did not add to her letter another line telling of her discovery, for she did not think of it; her mind was too intent upon escaping un.o.bserved; and when sure the family had retired she moved cautiously down the stairs, noiselessly unlocked the door, and without once daring to look back, lest she should waver in her purpose, she went forth, heartbroken and alone, from what for eighteen happy years had been her home. Very rapidly she proceeded, coming at last to an open field through which the railroad ran, the depot being nearly a quarter of a mile away. Not until then had she reflected that her appearance at the station at that hour of the night would excite suspicion, and she was beginning to feel uneasy, when suddenly around a curve the cars appeared in view. Fearing lest she should be too late, she quickened her footsteps, when to her great surprise she saw that the train was stopping! But not for her they waited; in the bright moonlight the engineer had discovered a body lying across the track, and had stopped in time to save the life of a man, who, stupefied with drunkenness, had fallen asleep. The movement startled the pa.s.sengers, many of whom alighted and gathered around the inebriate.

In the meantime Margaret had come near, and, knowing she could not now reach the depot in time, she mingled un.o.bserved in the crowd, and entering the rear car, took her seat near the door. The train at last moved on, and as at the station no one save the agent was in waiting, it is not strange that the conductor pa.s.sed unheeded the veiled figure which in the dark corner sat ready to pay her fare.

"He will come to me by and by," thought Maggie, but he did not, and when Worcester was reached the fare was still uncollected. Bewildered and uncertain what to do next, she stepped upon the platform, deciding finally to remain at the depot until morning, when a train would leave for Leominster, where she confidently expected to find her brother.

Taking a seat in the ladies' room, she abandoned herself to her sorrow, wondering what Theo would say could she see her then. But Theo, though dreaming it may be of Maggie, dreamed not that she was near, and so the night wore on, Margaret sleeping towards daylight, and dreaming, too, of Arthur Carrollton, who she thought had followed her--nay, was bending over her now and whispering in her ear, "Wake, Maggie, wake."

Starting up, she glanced anxiously around, uttering a faint cry when she saw that it was not Arthur Carrollton, but a dark, rough-looking stranger, who rather rudely asked her where she wished to go.

"To Leominster," she answered, turning her face fully towards the man, who became instantly respectful, telling her when the train would leave, and saying that she must go to another depot, at the same time asking if she had not better wait at some hotel.

But Maggie preferred going at once to the Fitchburg depot, which she accordingly did, and drawing her veil over her face, lest some one of her few acquaintances in the city should recognize her, she sat there until the time appointed for the cars to leave. Then, weary and faint, she entered the train, her spirits in a measure rising as she felt that she was drawing near to those who would love her for what she was and not for what she had been. Rose would comfort her, and already her heart bounded with the thought of seeing one whom she believed to be her brother's wife, for Henry had written that ere his homeward voyage was made Rose would be his bride.

Ah, Maggie! there is for you a greater happiness in store--not a brother, but a sister--your father's child is there to greet your coming. And even at this early hour her snow-white fingers are arranging the fair June blossoms into bouquets, with which she adorns her home, saying to him who hovers at her side that somebody, she knows not whom, is surely coming to-day; and then, with a blush stealing over her cheek, she adds, "I wish it might be Margaret"; while Henry, with a peculiar twist of his comical mouth, winds his arm around her waist, and playfully responds, "Anyone save her."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE SISTERS.

On a cool piazza overlooking a handsome flower garden the breakfast table was tastefully arranged. It was Rose's idea to have it there, and in her cambric wrapper, her golden curls combed smoothly back, and her blue eyes shining with the light of a new joy, she occupies her accustomed seat beside one who for several happy weeks has called her his, loving her more and more each day, and wondering how thoughts of any other could ever have filled his heart. There was much to be done about his home, so long deserted, and as Rose was determined upon a trip to the seaside he had made arrangements to be absent from his business for two months or more, and was now enjoying all the happiness of a quiet, domestic life, free from care of any kind. He had heard of Maggie's illness, but she was better now, he supposed, and when Theo hinted vaguely that a marriage between her and Arthur Carrollton was not at all improbable, he hoped it would be so, for the Englishman, he knew, was far better adapted to Margaret than he had ever been. Of Theo's hints he was speaking to Rose as they sat together at breakfast, and she had answered, "It will be a splendid match," when the doorbell rang, and the servant announced, "A lady in the parlor, who asks for Mr. Warner."

"I told you someone would come," said Rose. "Do, pray, see who it is.

How does she look, Janet?"