AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT MARAH'S COTTAGE.
"Friend wilt thou give me shelter here?
The stranger meekly saith
My life is hunted! evil men
Are following on my path."
Marah Rocke sat by her lonely fireside.
The cottage was not changed in any respect since the day upon which we
first of all found her there. There was the same bright, little wood
fire; the same clean hearth and the identical faded carpet on the
floor. There was the dresser with its glistening crockery ware on the
right, and the shelves with Traverse's old school books on the left of
the fireplace.
The widow herself had changed in nothing except that her clean black
dress was threadbare and rusty, and her patient face whiter and thinner
than before.
And now there was no eager restlessness; no frequent listening and
looking toward the door. Alas! she could not now expect to hear her
boy's light and springing step and cheerful voice as he hurried home at
eventide from his daily work. Traverse was far away at St. Louis
undergoing the cares and trials of a friendless young physician trying
to get into practice. Six months had passed since he took leave of her,
and there was as yet no hope of his returning even to pay a visit.
So Marah sat very still and sad, bending over her needlework without
ever turning her head in the direction of the door. True, he wrote to
her every week. No Wednesday ever passed without bringing her a letter
written in a strong, buoyant and encouraging strain. Still she missed
Traverse very sadly. It was dreary to rise up in the empty house every
morning; dreary to sit down to her solitary meals, and drearier still
to go to bed in her lonely room without having received her boy's kiss
and heard his cheerful good-night. And it was her custom every night to
read over Traverse's last letter before retiring to bed.
It was getting on toward ten o'clock when she folded up her work and
put it away and drew her boy's latest epistle from her bosom to read.
It ran as follows:
St. Louis, Dec. 1st, 184--.
My dearest Mother--I am very glad to hear that you continue in good
health, and that you do not work too hard, or miss me too sadly. It
is the greatest comfort of my life to hear good news of you, sweet
mother. I count the days from one letter to another, and read every
last letter over daily until I get a new one. You insist upon my
telling you how I am getting on, and whether I am out of money. I
am doing quite well, ma'am, and have some funds left! I have quite
a considerable practice. It is true that my professional services
are in request only among the very poor, who pay me with their
thanks and good wishes. But I am very glad to be able to pay off a
small part of the great debt of gratitude I owe to the benevolent
of this world by doing all that I can in my turn for the needy. And
even if I had never myself been the object of a good man's
benevolence, I should still have desired to serve the indigent;
"for whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord," and I "like the
security." Therefore, sweet mother of mine, be at ease; for I am
getting on swimmingly--with one exception. Still I do not hear from
our Clara! Six months have now passed, during which, despite of her
seeming silence, I have written to her every week; but not one
letter or message have I received from her in return! And now you
tell me also that you have not received a single letter from her
either! I know not what to think. Anxiety upon her account is my
one sole trouble! Not that I wrong the dear girl by one instant's
doubt of her constancy--no! my soul upon her truth! if I could do
that, I should be most unworthy of her love! No, mother, you and I
know that Clara is true! But ah! we do not know to what sufferings
she may be subjected by Le Noir, who I firmly believe has
intercepted all our letters. Mother, I am about to ask a great,
perhaps an unreasonable, favor of you! It is to go down into the
neighborhood of the Hidden House and make inquiries and try to find
out Clara's real condition. If it be possible, put yourself into
communication with her, and tell her that I judge her heart by my
own, and have the firmest faith in her constancy, even though I
have written to her every week for six months without ever having
received an answer. I feel that I am putting you to expense and
trouble, but my great anxiety about Clara, which I am sure you
share, must be my excuse. I kiss your dear and honored hands, and
remain ever your loving son and faithful servant.
TRAVERSE ROCKE.
"I must try to go. It will be an awful expense, because I know no one
down there, and I shall have to board at the tavern at Tip Top while I
am making inquiries--for I dare not approach the dwelling of Gabriel Le
Noir!" said Marah Rocke, as she folded up her letter and replaced it in
her bosom.
Just at that moment she heard the sound of wheels approach and a
vehicle of some sort draw up to the gate and some one speaking without.
She went to the door, and, listening, heard a girlish voice say:
"A dollar? Yes, certainly; here it is. There, you may go now."
She recognized the voice, and with a cry of joy jerked the door open
just as the carriage rolled away. And the next instant Clara Day was in
her arms.
"Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling! is this really you? Really,
really you, and no dream?" cried Marah Rocke, all in a flutter of
excitement, as she strained Clara to her bosom.
"Yes, it is I, sweet friend, come to stay with you a long time,
perhaps." said Clara, softly, returning her caresses.
"Oh, my lamb! my lamb! what a joyful surprise! I do think I shall go
crazy! Where did you come from, my pet? Who came with you? When did you
start? Did Le Noir consent to your coming? And how did it all happen?
But, dear child, how worn and weary you look! You must be very tired!
Have you had supper? Oh, my darling, come and lie down on this soft
lounge while I put away your things and get you some refreshment," said
Marah Rocke, in a delirium of joy, as she took off Clara's hat and sack
and laid her down to rest on the lounge, which she wheeled up near the
fire.
"Oh, my sweet, we have been so anxious about you! Traverse and myself!
Traverse is still at St. Louis, love, getting on slowly. He has written
to you every week, and so, indeed have I, but we neither of us have had
so much as one letter in reply. And yet neither of us ever doubted your
true heart, my child. We knew that the letters must have been lost,
miscarried or intercepted," said Marah, as she busied herself putting
on the tea-kettle.
"They must, indeed, since my experience in regard to letters exactly
corresponds with yours! I have written every week to both of you, yet
never received one line in reply from either," said Clara.
"We knew it! We said so! Oh, those Le Noirs! Those Le Noirs! But, my
darling, you are perfectly exhausted, and though I have asked you a
half an hundred questions you shall not reply to one of them, nor talk
a bit more until you have rested and had refreshment. Here, my love;
here is Traverse's last letter. It will amuse you to lie and read it
while I am getting tea," said Marah, taking the paper from her bosom
and handing it to Clara, and then placing the stand with the light near
the head of her couch that she might see to read it without rising.
And while Clara, well pleased, perused and smiled over her lover's
letter, Marah Rocke laid the cloth and spread a delicate repast of tea,
milk toast and poached eggs, of which she tenderly pressed her visitor
to partake.
And when Clara was somewhat refreshed by food and rest, she said:
"Now, dear mamma, you will wish to hear how it happens that I am with
you to-night."
"Not unless you feel quite rested, dear girl."
"I am rested sufficiently for the purpose; besides, I am anxious to
tell you. And oh, dear mamma! I could just now sit in your lap and lay
my head upon your kind, soft bosom so willingly!"
"Come, then, Clara! Come, then, my darling," said Marah, tenderly,
holding out her arms.
"No, no, mamma; you are too little; it would be a sin!" said Clara,
smiling; "but I will sit by you and put my hand in yours and rest my
head against your shoulder while I tell you all about it."
"Come, then, my darling!" said Marah Rocke.
Clara took the offered seat, and when she was fixed to her liking she
commenced and related to her friend a full history of all that had
occurred to her at the Hidden House from the moment that she had first
crossed its threshold to the hour in which, through the courage and
address of Capitola, she was delivered from imminent peril.
"And now," said Clara, in conclusion, "I have come hither in order to
get Doctor Williams to make one more appeal for me to the Orphans'
Court. And when it is proved what a traitor my guardian has been to his
trust I have no doubt that the judge will appoint some one else in his
place, or at least see that my father's last wish in regard to my
residence is carried into effect."
"Heaven grant it, my child! Heaven grant it! Oh, those Le Noirs! those
Le Noirs! Were there ever in the world before such ruthless villains
and accomplished hypocrites?" said Marah Rocke, clasping her hands in
the strength of her emotions.
A long time yet they talked together, and then they retired to bed, and
still talked until they fell asleep in each other's arms.
The next morning the widow arose early, gazed a little while with
delight upon the sleeping daughter of her heart, pressed a kiss upon
her cheek so softly as not to disturb her rest, and then, leaving her
still in the deep, sweet sleep of wearied youth, she went down-stairs
to get a nice breakfast.
Luckily a farmer's cart was just passing the road before the cottage on
its way to market.
Marah took out her little purse from her pocket, hailed the driver and
expended half her little store in purchasing two young chickens, some
eggs and some dried peaches, saying to herself:
"Dear Clara always had a good appetite, and healthy young human nature
must live substantially in spite of all its little heart-aches."
While Marah was preparing the chicken for the gridiron the door at the
foot of the stairs opened and Clara came in, looking, after her night's
rest, as fresh as a rosebud.
"What! up with the sun, my darling?" said Marah, going to meet her.
"Yes, mamma! Oh! it is so good to be here with you in this nice, quiet
place, with no one to make me shudder! But you must let me help you,
mamma! See! I will set the table and make the toast!"
"Oh, Miss Clara----"
"Yes, I will! I have been ill used and made miserable, and now you must
pet me, mamma, and let me have my own way and help you to cook our
little meals and to make the house tidy and afterward to work those
buttonholes in the shirts you were spoiling your gentle eyes over last
night. Oh! if they will only let me stay here with you and be at peace,
we shall be very happy together, you and I!" said Clara, as she drew
out the little table and laid the cloth.
"My dear child, may the Lord make you as happy as your sweet affection
would make me!" said Marah.
"We can work for our living together," continued Clara, as she gaily
flitted about from the dresser to the table, placing the cups and
saucers and plates. "You can sew the seams and do the plain hemming,
and I can work the buttonholes and stitch the bosoms, collars and
wristbands! And 'if the worst comes to the worst,' we can hang out our
little shingle before the cottage gate, inscribed with:
"MRS. ROCKE AND DAUGHTER.
Shirt Makers.
Orders executed with neatness and dispatch.
"We'd drive a thriving business, mamma, I assure you," said Clara, as
she sat down on a low stool at the hearth and began to toast the bread.
"I trust in heaven that it will never come to that with you, my dear!"
"Why? Why, mamma? Why should I not taste of toil and care as well as
others a thousand times better than myself? Why should not I work as
well as you and Traverse, mamma? I stand upon the broad platform of
human rights, and I say I have just as good a right to work as others!"
said Clara, with a pretty assumption of obstinacy, as she placed the
plate of toast upon the board.
"Doubtless, dear Clara, you may play at work just as much as you
please; but heaven forbid you should ever have to work at work!"
replied Mrs. Rocke as she placed the coffee pot and the dish of broiled
chicken on the table.
"Why, mamma, I do not think that is a good prayer at all! That is a
wicked, proud prayer, Mrs. Marah Rocke! Why shouldn't your daughter
really toil as well as other people's daughters, I'd like to be
informed?" said Clara, mockingly, as they both took their seats at the
table.
"I think, dear Clara, that you must have contracted some of your
eccentric little friend Capitola's ways, from putting on her habit! I
never before saw you in such gay spirits!" said Mrs. Rocke, as she
poured out the coffee.
"Oh, mamma; it is but the glad rebound of the freed bird! I am so glad
to have escaped from that dark prison of the Hidden House and to be
here with you. But tell me, mamma, is my old home occupied?"
"No, my dear; no tenant has been found for it. The property is in the
hands of an agent to let, but the house remains quite vacant and
deserted."
"Why is that?" asked Clara.
"Why, my love, for the strangest reason! The foolish country people say
that since the doctor's death the place has been haunted!"
"Haunted!"
"Yes, my dear, so the foolish people say, and they get wiser ones to
believe them."
"What exactly do they say? I hope--I hope they do not trifle with my
dear father's honored name and memory?"
"Oh, no, my darling! no! but they say that although the house is quite
empty and deserted by the living strange sights and sounds are heard
and seen by passers-by at night. Lights appear at the upper windows
from which pale faces look out."
"How very strange!" said Clara.
"Yes, my dear, and these stories have gained such credence that no one
can be found to take the house."
"So much the better, dear mamma, for if the new judge of the Orphans'
Court should give a decision in our favor, as he must, when he hears
the evidence, old and new, you and I can move right into it and need
not then enter the shirt-making line of business!"
"Heaven grant it, my dear! But now, Clara, my love, we must lose no
time in seeing Doctor Williams, lest your guardian should pursue you
here and give you fresh trouble."
Clara assented to this, and they immediately arose from the table,
cleared away the service, put the room in order and went up-stairs to
put on their bonnets, Mrs. Rocke lending Clara her own best bonnet and
shawl. When they were quite ready they locked up the house and set out
for the town.
It was a bright, frosty, invigorating winter's morning, and the two
friends walked rapidly until they reached Doctor Williams' house.
The kind old man was at home, and was much surprised and pleased to see
his visitors. He invited them into his parlor, and when he had heard
their story, he said:
"This is a much more serious affair than the other. We must employ
counsel. Witnesses must be brought from the neighborhood of the Hidden
House. You are aware that the late judge of the Orphans' Court has been
appointed to a high office under the government at Washington. The man
that has taken his place is a person of sound integrity, who will do
his duty. It remains only for us to prove the justice of our cause to
his satisfaction, and all will be well."
"Oh, I trust in heaven that it will be," said Marah, fervently.
"You two must stay in my house until the affair is decided. You might
possibly be safe from real injury; but you could not be free from
molestation in your unprotected condition at the cottage," said Doctor
Williams.
Clara warmly expressed her thanks.
"You had better go home now and pack up what you wish to bring, and put
out the fire and close up the house and come here immediately. In the
mean time I will see your dear father's solicitor and be ready with my
report by the time you get back," said Doctor Williams, promptly taking
his hat to go.
Mrs. Rocke and Clara set out for the cottage, which they soon reached.
Throwing off her bonnet and shawl, Clara said:
"Now, mamma, the very first thing I shall do will be to write to
Traverse, so that we can send the letter by to-day's mail and set his
mind at rest. I shall simply tell him that our mutual letters have
failed to reach their destination, but that I am now on a visit to you,
and that while I remain here nothing can interrupt our correspondence.
I shall not speak of the coming suit until we see how it will end."
Mrs. Rocke approved this plan, and placed writing materials on the
table. And while the matron employed herself in closing up the rooms,
packing up what was needful to take with them to the doctor's and
putting out the fire, Clara wrote and sealed her letter. They then put
on their bonnets, locked up the house, and set out. They called at the
post-office just in time to mail their letter, and they reached the
doctor's house just as he himself walked up to the door, accompanied by
the lawyer. The latter greeted the daughter of his old client and her
friend, and they all went into the house together.
In the doctor's study the whole subject of Clara's flight and its
occasion was talked over, and the lawyer agreed to commence proceedings
immediately.