Part 19 (1/2)

”Warner, Warner!” interrupted old Hagar, the nameless terror of the night before creeping again into her heart. ”Whose name did you say was Warner?”

”The hull on 'em, boy, girl, and all, is called Warner now--one Rose, and t'other Henry,” answered the peddler, perfectly delighted with the interest manifested by his auditor, who, grasping at the bedpost and moving her hand rapidly before her eyes, as if to clear away a mist which had settled there, continued, ”I remember now, Hester told me of the children; but one, she said, was a stepchild--that was the boy, wasn't it?” and her wild, black eyes had in them a look of unutterable anxiety, wholly incomprehensible to the peddler, who, instead of answering her question said: ”What ails you woman? Your face is as white as a piece of paper?”

”Thinking of Hester always affects me so,” she answered; and stretching her hands beseechingly towards him, she entreated him to say if Henry were not the stepchild.

”No marm, he warn't,” answered the peddler, who, like a great many talkative people, pretended to know more than he really did, and who in this particular instance was certainly mistaken. ”I can tell you egzactly how that is: Henry was the son of Mr. Hampleton's first marriage--Henry Hampleton. The second wife, the one your darter lived with, was the Widder Warner, and had a little gal, Rose, when she married Mr. Hampleton. This Widder Warner's husband's brother married Mr. Hampleton's sister, the woman who took the children, and had Henry change his name to Warner. The Hampletons and Warners were mighty big-feelin' folks, and the old squire's match mortified 'em dreadfully.”

”Where are they now?” gasped Hagar, hoping there might be some mistake.

”There you've got me!” answered Martin. ”I haven't seen 'em this dozen year; but the last I heard, Miss Warner and Rose was livin' in Leominster, and Henry was in a big store in Wooster. But what the plague is the matter?” he continued, alarmed at the expression of Hagar's face, as well as at the strangeness of her manner.

Wringing her hands as if she would wrench her fingers from their sockets, she clutched at her long white hair, and, rocking to and fro, moaned, ”Woe is me, and woe the day when I was born!”

From everyone save her grandmother Margaret had kept the knowledge of her changed feelings towards Henry Warner; and looking upon a marriage between the two as an event surely to be expected, old Hagar was overwhelmed with grief and fear. Falling at last upon her knees, she cried: ”Had you cut my throat from ear to ear, old man, you could not have hurt me more! Oh, that I had died years and years ago! But I must live now--live!” she screamed, springing to her feet--”live to prevent the wrong my own wickedness has caused!”

Perfectly astonished at what he saw and heard, the peddler attempted to question her, but failing to obtain any satisfactory answers he finally left, mentally p.r.o.nouncing her ”as crazy as a loon.” This opinion was confirmed by the people on whom he next called, for, chancing to speak of Hagar, he was told that nothing which she did or said was considered strange, as she had been called insane for years.

This satisfied Martin, who made no further mention of her, and thus the scandal which his story might otherwise have produced was prevented.

In the meantime on her face lay old Hagar, moaning bitterly. ”My sin has found me out; and just when I thought it never need be known! For myself I do not care; but Maggie, Maggie--how can I tell her that she is bone of my bone, blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh--and me old Hagar Warren!”

It would be impossible to describe the scorn and intense loathing concentrated in the tones of Hagar's voice as she uttered these last words, ”and me old Hagar Warren!” Had she indeed been the veriest wretch on earth, she could not have hated herself more than she did in that hour of her humiliation, when, with a loud voice, she cried, ”Let me die, oh, let me die, and it will never be known!” Then, as she reflected upon the terrible consequence which would ensue were she to die and make no sign, she wrung her hands despairingly, crying: ”Life, life--yes, give me life to tell her of my guilt; and then it will be a blessed rest to die. Oh, Margaret, my precious child, I'd give my heart's blood, drop by drop, to save you; but it can't be; you must not wed your father's son; oh, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!”

Fainter and fainter grew each succeeding word, and when the last was spoken she fell again upon her face, unconscious and forgetful of her woe. Higher and higher in the heavens rose the morning sun, stealing across the window sill, and s.h.i.+ning aslant the floor, where Hagar still lay in a deep, deathlike swoon. An hour pa.s.sed on, and then the wretched woman came slowly back to life, her eyes lighting up with joy, as she whispered, ”It was a dream, thank Heaven, 'twas a dream!”

and then growing dim with tears, as the dread reality came over her.

The first fearful burst of grief was pa.s.sed, for Hagar now could weep, and tears did her good, quelling the feverish agony at her heart. Not for herself did she suffer so much as for Maggie, trembling for the effect the telling of the secret would have on her. For it must be told. She knew that full well, and as the sun fast neared the western horizon, she murmured, ”Oh, will she come to-night, will she come to-night?”

Yes, Hagar, she will. Even now her feet, which, when they backward turn, will tread less joyously, are threading the woodland path. The halfway rock is reached--nearer and nearer she comes--her shadow falls across the floor--her hand is on your arm--her voice in your ear--Maggie Miller is at your side--Heaven help you both!

CHAPTER XIX.

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 gus.h.i.+ng 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.”