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!