The Project Gutenberg EBook of Maggie Miller, by Mary J. Holmes

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Title: Maggie Miller

Author: Mary J. Holmes

Release Date: February 25, 2004 [EBook #11280]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAGGIE MILLER ***

Produced by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

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