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,
impassioned 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
associations 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 associations 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 anticipated. 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 unobserved; 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 passengers, 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 unobserved 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 passed 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."