THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.
"Hagar! Hagar!" exclaimed Maggie, playfully bounding to her side, and
laying her hand upon her arm. "What aileth thee, Hagar?"
The words were meet, 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 of 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 the snowy head upon
her bosom, continued soothingly: "I did not mean to stay away 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 Maggie 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
Maggie had sat with Arthur Carrollton on the morning of his departure
for Montreal.
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 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 Maggie, 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 Maggie, half
playfully; and turning round 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, Maggie 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, Maggie, 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 shriveled, 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 Maggie had
risen, and now, tall, and erect as the mountain ash which grew on her
native hills, she stood before Hagar, 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 it is--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 heartbroken 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 fond woman who had cherished her so tenderly--neither was
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 a place for Hagar Warren's
grandchild? "No, no, no!" 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 shriveled,
skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother." For a long
time she lay there thus, weeping till the fountain of her tears seemed
dry; then, weary, faint, and 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, bedraggled 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 aint; 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 passed she was raving with
delirium, brought on, the physician said, by some sudden shock, the
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 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 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 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.