MARAH ROCKE.
"There sits upon her matron face
A tender and a thoughtful grace,
Though very still,--for great distress
Hath left this patient mournfulness."
Beside an old rocky road leading from the town of Staunton out to the
forest-crowned hills beyond, stood alone a little, gray stone cottage,
in the midst of a garden inclosed by a low, moldering stone wall. A few
gnarled and twisted fruit trees, long past bearing, stood around the
house that their leafless branches could not be said to shade. A little
wooden gate led up an old paved walk to the front door, on each side of
which were large windows.
In this poor cottage, remote from other neighbors, dwelt the friends of
Herbert Greyson--the widow Rocke and her son Traverse.
No one knew who she was, or whence or why she came. Some fifteen years
before she had appeared in town, clothed in rusty mourning and
accompanied by a boy of about two years of age. She had rented that
cottage, furnished it poorly and had settled there, supporting herself
and child by needlework.
At the time that Doctor Greyson died and his widow and son were left
perfectly destitute, and it became necessary for Mrs. Greyson to look
out for a humble lodging where she could find the united advantages of
cheapness, cleanliness and pure air, she was providentially led to
inquire at the cottage of the widow Rocke, whom she found only too glad
to increase her meager income by letting half her little house to such
unexceptionable tenants as the widow Greyson and her son.
And thus commenced between the two poor young women and the two boys an
acquaintance that ripened into friendship, and thence into that devoted
love so seldom seen in this world.
Their households became united. One fire, one candle and one table
served the little family, and thus considerable expense was saved as
well as much social comfort gained. And when the lads grew too old to
sleep with their mothers, one bed held the two boys and the other
accommodated the two women. And, despite toil, want, care--the sorrow
for the dead and the neglect of the living--this was a loving, contented
and cheerful little household. How much of their private history these
women might have confided to each other was not known, but it was
certain that they continued fast friends up to the time of the death of
Mrs. Greyson, after which the widow Rocke assumed a double burden, and
became a second mother to the orphan boy, until Herbert himself, ashamed
of taxing her small means, ran away, as he had said, and went to sea.
Every year had Herbert written to his kind foster mother and his dear
brother, as he called Traverse. And at the end of every prosperous
voyage, when he had a little money, he had sent them funds; but not
always did these letters or remittances reach the widow's cottage, and
long seasons of intense anxiety would be suffered by her for the fate of
her sailor boy, as she always called Herbert. Only three times in all
these years had Herbert found time and means to come down and see them,
and that was long ago. It was many months over two years since they had
even received a letter from him. And now the poor widow and her son were
almost tempted to think that their sailor boy had quite forsaken them.
It is near the close of a late autumnal evening that I shall introduce
you, reader, into the interior of the widow's cottage.
You enter by the little wooden gate, pass up the moldering paved walk,
between the old, leafless lilac bushes, and pass through the front door
right into a large, clean but poor-looking sitting-room and kitchen.
Everything was old, though neatly and comfortably arranged about this
room. A faded home-made carpet covered the floor, a threadbare crimson
curtain hung before the window, a rickety walnut table, dark with age,
sat under the window against the wall; old walnut chairs were placed
each side of it; old plated candlesticks, with the silver all worn off,
graced the mantelpiece; a good fire--a cheap comfort in that well-wooded
country--blazed upon the hearth; on the right side of the fireplace a
few shelves contained some well-worn books, a flute, a few minerals and
other little treasures belonging to Traverse; on the left hand there was
a dresser containing the little delfware, tea service and plates and
dishes of the small family.
Before the fire, with her knitting in her hand, sat Marah Rocke,
watching the kettle as it hung singing over the blaze and the oven of
biscuits that sat baking upon the hearth.
Marah Rocke was at this time about thirty-five years of age, and of a
singularly refined and delicate aspect for one of her supposed rank; her
little form, slight and flexible as that of a young girl, was clothed in
a poor but neat black dress, relieved by a pure-white collar around her
throat; her jet-black hair was parted plainly over her "low, sweet
brow," brought down each side her thin cheeks and gathered into a bunch
at the back of her shapely little head; her face was oval, with regular
features and pale olive complexion; serious lips, closed in pensive
thought, and soft, dark-brown eyes, full of tender affection and
sorrowful memories, and too often cast down in meditation beneath the
heavy shadows of their long, thick eyelashes, completed the melancholy
beauty of a countenance not often seen among the hard-working children
of toil.
Marah Rocke was a very hard-working woman, sewing all day long and
knitting through the twilight, and then again resuming her needle by
candle-light and sewing until midnight--and yet Marah Rocke made but a
poor and precarious living for herself and son. Needlework, so ill-paid
in large cities, is even worse paid in the country towns, and, though
the cottage hearth was never cold, the widow's meals were often scant.
Lately her son, Traverse, who occasionally earned a trifle of money by
doing "with all his might whatever his hand could find to do," had been
engaged by a grocer in the town to deliver his goods to his customers
during the illness of the regular porter; for which, as he was only a
substitute, he received the very moderate sum of twenty-five cents a
day.
This occupation took Traverse from home at daybreak in the morning, and
kept him absent until eight o'clock at night. Nevertheless, the widow
always gave him a hot breakfast before he went out in the morning and
kept a comfortable supper waiting for him at night.
It was during this last social meal that the youth would tell his mother
all that had occurred in his world outside the home that day, and all
that he expected to come to pass the next, for Traverse was wonderfully
hopeful and sanguine.
And after supper the evening was generally spent by Traverse in hard
study beside his mother's sewing-stand.
Upon this evening, when the widow sat waiting for her son, he seemed to
be detained longer than usual. She almost feared that the biscuits would
be burned, or, if taken from the oven, be cold before he would come to
enjoy them; but, just as she had looked for the twentieth time at the
little black walnut clock that stood between those old plated
candlesticks on the mantelpiece, the sound of quick, light, joyous
footsteps was heard resounding along the stony street, the gate was
opened, a hand laid upon the door-latch, and the next instant entered a
youth some seventeen years of age, clad in a home-spun suit, whose
coarse material and clumsy make could not disguise his noble form or
graceful air.
He was like his mother, with the same oval face, regular features and
pale olive complexion, with the same full, serious lips, the same dark,
tender brown eyes, shaded by long, black lashes, and the same wavy,
jet-black hair--but there was a difference in the character of their
faces; where hers showed refinement and melancholy, his exhibited
strength and cheerfulness--his loving brown eyes, instead of drooping
sadly under the shadow of their lashes, looked you brightly and
confidently full in the face; and, lastly, his black hair curled crisply
around a broad, high forehead, royal with intellect. Such was the boy
that entered the room and came joyously forward to his mother, clasping
his arm around her neck, saluting her on both cheeks, and then
laughingly claiming his childish privilege of kissing "the pretty little
black mole on her throat."
"Will you never have outgrown your babyhood, Traverse?" asked his
mother, smiling at his affectionate ardor.
"Yes, dear little mother; in everything but the privilege of fondling
you; that feature of babyhood I never shall outgrow," exclaimed the
youth, kissing her again with all the ardor of his true and affectionate
heart, and starting up to help her set the table.
He dragged the table out from under the window, spread the cloth and
placed the cups and saucers upon it, while his mother took the biscuits
from the oven and made the tea; so that in ten minutes from the moment
in which he entered the room, mother and son were seated at their frugal
supper.
"I suppose, to-morrow being Saturday, you will have to get up earlier
than usual to go to the store?" said his mother.
"No, ma'am," replied the boy, looking up brightly, as if he were telling
a piece of good news; "I am not wanted any longer. Mr. Spicer's own man
has got well again and returned to work."
"So you are discharged?" said Mrs. Rocke, sadly.
"Yes, ma'am; but just think how fortunate that is, for I shall have a
chance to-morrow of mending the fence and nailing up the gate and sawing
wood enough to last you a week, besides doing all the other little odd
jobs that have been waiting for me so long; and then on Monday I shall
get more work."
"I wish I were sure of it," said the widow, whose hopes had long since
been too deeply crushed to permit her ever to be sanguine.
When their supper was over and the humble service cleared away, the
youth took his books and applied himself to study on the opposite side
of the table at which his mother sat busied with her needlework. And
there fell a perfect silence between them.
The widow's mind was anxious and her heart heavy; many cares never
communicated to cloud the bright sunshine of her boy's soul oppressed
hers. The rent had fallen fearfully behindhand, and the landlord
threatened, unless the money could be raised to pay him, to seize their
furniture and eject them from the premises. And how this money was to be
raised she could not see at all. True, this meek Christian had often in
her sad experience proved God's special providence at her utmost need,
and now she believed in His ultimate interference, but in what manner He
would now interpose she could not imagine, and her faith grew dim and
her hope dark and her love cold.
While she was revolving these sad thoughts in her mind, Traverse
suddenly thrust aside his books, and, with a deep sigh, turned to his
mother and said:
"Mother, what do you think has ever become of Herbert?"
"I do not know; I dread to conjecture. It has now been nearly three
years since we heard from him," exclaimed the widow, with the tears
welling up in her brown eyes.
"You think he has been lost at sea, mother, but I don't. I simply think
his letters have been lost. And, somehow, to-night I can't fix my mind
on my lesson or keep it off Herbert. He is running in my head all the
time. If I were fanciful, now, I should believe that Herbert was dead
and his spirit was about me. Good heavens, mother, whose step is that?"
suddenly exclaimed the youth, starting up and assuming an attitude of
intense listening, as a firm and ringing step, attended by a peculiar
whistling, approached up the street and entered the gate.
"It is Herbert! it is Herbert!" cried Traverse, starting across the room
and tearing open the door with a suddenness that threw the entering
guest forward upon his own bosom; but his arms were soon around the
newcomer, clasping him closely there, while he breathlessly exclaimed:
"Oh, Herbert, I am so glad to see you! Oh, Herbert, why didn't you come
or write all this long time? Oh, Herbert, how long have you been ashore?
I was just talking about you."
"Dear fellow! dear fellow! I have come to make you glad at last, and to
repay all your great kindness; but now let me speak to my second
mother," said Herbert, returning Traverse's embrace and then gently
extricating himself and going to where Mrs. Rocke stood up, pale,
trembling and incredulous; she had not yet recovered from the great
shock of his unexpected appearance.
"Dear mother, won't you welcome me?" asked Herbert, going up to her. His
words dissolved the spell that bound her. Throwing her arms around his
neck and bursting into tears, she exclaimed:
"Oh, my son! my son! my sailor boy! my other child! how glad I am to
have you back once more! Welcome! To be sure you are welcome! Is my own
circulating blood welcome back to my heart? But sit you down and rest by
the fire; I will get your supper directly."
"Sweet mother, do not take the trouble. I supped twenty miles back,
where the stage stopped."
"And will you take nothing at all?"
"Nothing, dear mother, but your kind hand to kiss again and again!" said
the youth, pressing that hand to his lips and then allowing the widow to
put him into a chair right in front of the fire.
Traverse sat on one side of him and his mother on the other, each
holding a hand of his and gazing on him with mingled incredulity,
surprise and delight, as if, indeed, they could not realize his presence
except by devouring him with their eyes.
And for the next half hour all their talk was as wild and incoherent as
the conversation of long-parted friends suddenly brought together is apt
to be.
It was all made up of hasty questions, hurried one upon another, so as
to leave but little chance to have any of them answered, and wild
exclamations and disjointed sketches of travel, interrupted by frequent
ejaculations; yet through all the widow and her son, perhaps through the
quickness of their love as well as of their intellect, managed to get
some knowledge of the past three years of their "sailor boy's" life and
adventures, and they entirely vindicated his constancy when they learned
how frequently and regularly he had written, though they had never
received his letters.
"And now," said Herbert, looking from side to side from mother to son,
"I have told you all my adventures, I am dying to tell you something
that concerns yourselves."
"That concerns us?" exclaimed mother and son in a breath.
"Yes, ma'am; yes, sir; that concerns you both eminently. But, first of
all, let me ask how you are getting on at the present time."
"Oh, as usual," said the widow, smiling, for she did not wish to dampen
the spirits of her sailor boy; "as usual, of course. Traverse has not
been able to accomplish his darling purpose of entering the Seminary
yet; but----"
"But I'm getting on quite well with my education, for all that,"
interrupted Traverse; "for I belong to Dr. Day's Bible class in the
Sabbath school, which is a class of young men, you know, and the doctor
is so good as to think that I have some mental gifts worth cultivating,
so he does not confine his instructions to me to the Bible class alone,
but permits me to come to him in his library at Willow Heights for an
hour twice a week, when he examines me in Latin and algebra, and sets me
new exercises, which I study and write out at night; so that you see I
am doing very well."
"Indeed, the doctor, who is a great scholar, and one of the trustees and
examiners of the Seminary, says that he does not know any young man
there, with all the advantages of the institution around him, who is
getting along so fast as Traverse is, with all the difficulties he has
to encounter. The doctor says it is all because Traverse is profoundly
in earnest, and that one of these days he will be----"
"There, mother, don't repeat all the doctor's kind speeches. He only
says such things to encourage a poor boy in the pursuit of knowledge
under difficulties," said Traverse, blushing and laughing.
"'--Will be an honor to his kindred, country and race!'" said Herbert,
finishing the widow's incomplete quotation.
"It was something like that, indeed," she said, nodding and smiling.
"You do me proud!" said Traverse, touching his forelock with comic
gravity. "But," inquired he, suddenly changing his tone and becoming
serious, "was it not--is it not--noble in the doctor to give up an hour
of his precious time twice a week for no other cause than to help a
poor, struggling fellow like me up the ladder of learning?"
"I should think it was! But he is not the first noble heart I ever heard
of!" said Herbert, with an affectionate glance that directed the
compliment. "Nor is his the last that you will meet with. I must tell
you the good news now."
"Oh, tell it, tell it! Have you got a ship of your own, Herbert?"
"No; nor is it about myself that I am anxious to tell you. Mrs. Rocke,
you may have heard that I had a rich uncle whom I had never seen,
because, from the time of my dear mother's marriage to that of her
death, she and her brother--this very uncle--had been estranged?"
"Yes," said the widow, speaking in a very low tone and bending her head
over her work; "yes, I have heard so; but your mother and myself seldom
alluded to the subject."
"Exactly; mother never was fond of talking of him. Well, when I came
ashore and went, as usual, up to the old Washington House, who should I
meet with, all of a sudden, but this rich uncle. He had come to New York
to claim a little girl whom I happened to know, and who happened to
recognize me and name me to him. Well, I knew him only by his name; but
he knew me both by my name and by my likeness to his sister, and
received me with wonderful kindness, offered me a home under his roof,
and promised to get for me an appointment to West Point. Are you not
glad?--say, are you not glad?" he exclaimed, jocosely clapping his hand
upon Traverse's knee, and then turning around and looking at his mother.
"Oh, yes, indeed, I am very glad, Herbert," exclaimed Traverse, heartily
grasping and squeezing his friend's hand.
"Yes, yes; I am indeed sincerely glad of your good fortune, dear boy,"
said the widow; but her voice was very faint and her head bent still
lower over her work.
"Ha! ha! ha! I knew you'd be glad for me; but now I require you to be
glad for yourselves. Now listen! When I told my honest old uncle--for he
is honest, with all his eccentricities--when I told him of what friends
you had been to me----"
"Oh, no; you did not--you did not mention us to him?" cried the widow,
suddenly starting up and clasping her hands together, while she gazed in
an agony of entreaty into the face of the speaker.
"Why not? Why in the world not? Was there anything improper in doing
so?" inquired Herbert in astonishment, while Traverse himself gazed in
amazement at the excessive and unaccountable agitation of his mother.
"Why, mother? Why shouldn't he have mentioned us? Was there anything
strange or wrong in that?" inquired Traverse.
"No; oh no; certainly not; I forgot, it was so sudden," said the widow,
sinking back in her chair and struggling for self-control.
"Why, mother, what in the world is the meaning of this?" asked her son.
"Nothing, nothing, boy; only we are poor folks, and should not be forced
upon the attention of a wealthy gentleman," she said with a cold,
unnatural smile, putting her hand to her brow and striving to gain
composure. Then, as Herbert continued silent and amazed, she said to
him:
"Go on, go on--you were saying something about my--about Major
Warfield's kindness to you--go on." And she took up her work and tried
to sew, but she was as pale as death and trembling all over at the same
time that every nerve was acute with attention to catch every word that
might fall from the lips of Herbert.
"Well," recommenced the young sailor, "I was just saying that when I
mentioned you and Traverse to my uncle, and told him how kind and
disinterested you had been to me--you being like a mother and Traverse
like a brother--he was really moved almost to tears. Yes, I declare I
saw the raindrops glittering in his tempestuous old orbs as he walked
the floor muttering to himself, 'Poor women--good, excellent woman.'"
While Herbert spoke the widow dropped her work without seeming to know
that she had done so; her fingers twitched so nervously that she had to
hold both hands clasped together, and her eyes were fixed in intense
anxiety upon the face of the youth as she repeated:
"Go on--oh, go on. What more did he say when you talked of us?"
"He said everything that was kind and good. He said that he could not do
too much to compensate you for the past."
"Oh, did he say that?" exclaimed the widow, breathlessly.
"Yes, and a great deal more--that all that he could do for you or your
son was but a sacred debt he owed you."
"Oh, he acknowledged it--he acknowledged it! Thank Heaven! oh, thank
Heaven! Go on, Herbert; go on."
"He said that he would in future take the whole charge of the boy's
advancement in life, and that he would place you above want forever:
that he would, in fact, compensate for the past by doing you and yours
full justice."
"Thank Heaven! oh, thank Heaven!" exclaimed the widow, no longer
concealing her agitation, but throwing down her work, and starting up
and pacing the floor in excess of joy.
"Mother," said Traverse, uneasily, going to her and taking her hand,
"mother, what is the meaning of all this? Do come and sit down."
She immediately turned and walked back to the fire, and, resting her
hands upon the back of the chair, bent upon them a face radiant with
youthful beauty. Her cheeks were brightly flushed, her eyes were
sparkling with light, her whole countenance resplendent with joy--she
scarcely seemed twenty years of age.
"Mother, tell us what it is," pleaded Traverse, who feared for her
sanity.
"Oh, boys, I am so happy! At last! at last! after eighteen years of
patient 'hoping against hope!' I shall go mad with joy!"
"Mother," said Herbert, softly.
"Children, I am not crazy! I know what I am saying, though I did not
intend to say it! And you shall know, too! But first I must ask Herbert
another question: Herbert, are you very sure that he--Major
Warfield--knew who we were?"
"Yes, indeed; didn't I tell him all about you--your troubles, your
struggles, your disinterestedness and all your history since ever I knew
you?" answered Herbert, who was totally unconscious that he had left
Major Warfield in ignorance of one very important fact--her surname.
"Then you are sure he knew who he was talking about?"
"Of course he did."
"He could not have failed to do so, indeed. But, Herbert, did he mention
any other important fact that you have not yet communicated to us?"
"No, ma'am."
"Did he allude to any previous acquaintance with us?"
"No, ma'am, unless it might have been in the words I repeated to
you--there was nothing else--except that he bade me hurry to you and
make you glad with his message, and return as soon as possible to let
him know whether you accept his offers."
"Accept them! accept them! Of course I do. I have waited for them for
years. Oh, children, you gaze on me as if you thought me mad. I am not
so; nor can I now explain myself, for, since he has not chosen to be
confidential with Herbert, I cannot be so prematurely; but you will know
all when Herbert shall have borne back my message to Major Warfield."
It was indeed a mad evening in the cottage. And even when the little
family had separated and retired to bed, the two youths, lying together
as formerly, could not sleep for talking, while the widow on her lonely
couch lay awake for joy.