MARAH'S MEMORIES.
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,
And gazing down with a timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
--Whittier.
"Dear Marah, I cannot understand your strong attachment to that bronzed
and grizzled old man, who has, besides, treated you so barbarously,"
said Herbert.
"Is he bronzed and gray?" asked Marah, looking up with gentle pity in
her eyes and tone.
"Why, of course he is. He is sixty-two."
"He was forty-five when I first knew him, and he was very handsome then.
At least, I thought him the very perfection of manly strength and beauty
and goodness. True, it was the mature, warm beauty of the Indian summer,
for he was more than middle-aged; but it was very genial to the chilly,
loveless morning of my own early life," said Marah, dropping her head
upon her hand and sliding into reminiscences of the past.
"Dear Marah, I wish you would tell me all about your marriage and
misfortunes," said Herbert, in a tone of the deepest sympathy and
respect.
"Yes, he was very handsome," continued Mrs. Rocke, speaking more to
herself than to her companion; "his form was tall, full and stately; his
complexion warm, rich and glowing; his fine face was lighted up by a
pair of strong, dark-gray eyes, full of fire and tenderness, and was
surrounded by waving masses of jet-black hair and whiskers; they are
gray now, you say, Herbert?"
"Gray and grizzled, and bristling up around his hard face like
thorn-bushes around a rock in winter!" said Herbert, bluntly, for it
enraged his honest but inexperienced boyish heart to hear this wronged
woman speak so enthusiastically.
"Ah! it is winter with him now; but then it was glorious Indian summer!
He was a handsome, strong and ardent man. I was a young, slight, pale
girl, with no beauty but the cold and colorless beauty of a statue; with
no learning but such as I had picked up from a country school; with no
love to bless my lonely life--for I was a friendless orphan, without
either parents or relatives, and living by sufferance in a cold and
loveless home."
"Poor girl!" murmured Herbert, in almost inaudible tones.
"Our log cabin stood beside the military road leading through the
wilderness to the fort where he was stationed. And, oh! when he came
riding by each day upon his noble, coal-black steed and in his martial
uniform, looking so vigorous, handsome and kingly, he seemed to me
almost a god to worship! Sometimes he drew rein in front of the old oak
tree that stood in front of our cabin to breathe his horse or to ask for
a draught of water. I used to bring it to him. Oh! then, when he looked
at me, his eyes seemed to send new warmth to my chilled heart; when he
spoke, too, his tones seemed to strengthen me; while he stayed his
presence seemed to protect me!"
"Aye, such protection as vultures give to doves--covering and devouring
them," muttered Herbert to himself. Mrs. Rocke, too absorbed in her
reminiscences to heed his interruptions, continued:
"One day he asked me to be his wife. I do not know what I answered. I
only know that when I understood what he meant, my heart trembled with
instinctive terror at its own excessive joy! We were privately married
by the chaplain at the fort. There were no accommodations for the wives
of officers there. And, besides, my husband did not wish to announce our
marriage until he was ready to take me to his princely mansion in
Virginia."
"Humph!" grunted Herbert inwardly, for comment.
"But he built for me a pretty cabin in the woods below the fort,
furnished it simply and hired a half-breed Indian woman to wait on me.
Oh, I was too happy! To my wintry spring of life summer had come, warm,
rich and beautiful! There is a clause in the marriage service which
enjoins the husband to cherish his wife. I do not believe many people
ever stop to think how much is in that word. He did; he cherished my
little, thin, chill, feeble life until I became strong, warm and
healthful. Oh! even as the blessed sun warms and animates and glorifies
the earth, causing it to brighten with life and blossom with flowers and
bloom with fruit, so did my husband enrich and cherish and bless my
life! Such happiness could not and it did not last!"
"Of course not!" muttered Herbert to himself.
"At first the fault was in myself. Yes, Herbert it was! you need not
look incredulous or hope to cast all the blame on him! Listen: Happy,
grateful, adoring as I was, I was also shy, timid and bashful--never
proving the deep love I bore my husband except by the most perfect
self-abandonment to his will. All this deep, though quiet, devotion he
understood as mere passive obedience void of love. As this continued he
grew uneasy, and often asked me if I cared for him at all, or if it were
possible for a young girl like me to love an old man like himself."
"A very natural question," thought Herbert.
"Well, I used to whisper in answer, 'Yes,' and still 'Yes.' But this
never satisfied Major Warfield. One day, when he asked me if I cared for
him the least in the world, I suddenly answered that if he were to die I
should throw myself across his grave and lie there until death should
release me! whereupon he broke into a loud laugh, saying, 'Methinks the
lady doth protest too much.' I was already blushing deeply at the
unwonted vehemence of my own words, although I had spoken only as I
felt--the very, very truth. But his laugh and his test so increased my
confusion that, in fine, that was the first and last time I ever did
protest! Like Lear's Cordelia, I was tongue-tied--I had no words to
assure him. Sometimes I wept to think how poor I was in resources to
make him happy. Then came another annoyance--my name and fame were
freely discussed at the fort."
"A natural consequence," sighed Herbert.
"The younger officers discovered my woodland home, and often stole out
to reconnoitre my calm. Among them was Captain Le Noir, who, after he
had discovered my retreat, picked acquaintance with Lura, my attendant.
Making the woodland sports his pretext, he haunted the vicinity of my
cabin, often stopping at the door to beg a cup of water, which, of
course, was never denied, or else to offer a bunch of partridges or a
brace of rabbits or some other game, the sports of his gun, which
equally, of course, was never accepted. One beautiful morning in June,
finding my cabin door open and myself alone, he ventured unbidden across
my threshold, and by his free conversation and bold admiration offended
and alarmed me. Some days afterward, in the mess-room at the fort, being
elevated by wine, he boasted among his messmates of the intimate terms
of friendly acquaintance upon which he falsely asserted that he had the
pleasure of standing with 'Warfield's pretty little favorite,' as he
insolently called me. When my husband heard of this I learned for the
first time the terrific violence of his temper. It was awful! it
frightened me almost to death. There was a duel, of course. Le Noir was
very dangerously wounded, scarred across the face for life, and was
confined many weeks to his bed. Major Warfield was also slightly hurt
and laid up at the fort for a few days, during which I was not permitted
to see him."
"Is it possible that even then he did not see your danger and
acknowledge your marriage and call you to his bedside?" inquired
Herbert, impatiently.
"No, no! if he had all after suffering had been spared. No! at the end
of four days he came back to me; but we met only for bitter reproaches
on his part and sorrowful tears on mine. He charged me with coldness,
upon account of the disparity in our years, and of the preference for
Captain Le Noir, because he was a pretty fellow, I knew this was not
true of me. I knew that I loved my husband's very footprints better than
I did the whole human race besides; but I could not tell him so then.
Oh, in those days, though my heart was so full, I had so little power of
utterance! There he stood before me! he that had been so ruddy and
buoyant, now so pale from loss of blood, and so miserable, that I could
have fallen and groveled at his feet in sorrow and remorse at not being
able to make him happy!"
"There are some persons whom we can never make happy. It is not in them
to be so," commented Herbert.
"He made me promise never to see or to speak to Le Noir again--a promise
eagerly given but nearly impossible to keep. My husband spent as much
time with me as he possibly could spare from his military duties, and
looked forward with impatience to the autumn, when it was thought that
he would be at liberty to take me home. He often used to tell me that we
should spend our Christmas at his house, Hurricane Hall, and that I
should play Lady Bountiful and distribute Christmas gifts to the negroes
and that they would love me. And, oh! with what joy I anticipated that
time of honor and safety and careless ease, as an acknowledged wife, in
the home of my husband! There, too, I fondly believed, our child would
be born. All his old tenderness returned for me, and I was as happy, if
not as wildly joyful, as at first."
"'Twas but a lull in the storm," said Herbert.
"Aye! 'twas but a lull in the storm, or, rather, before the storm! I do
think that from the time of that duel Le Noir had resolved upon our
ruin. As soon as he was able to go out he haunted the woods around my
cabin and continually lay in wait for me. I could not go out even in the
company of my maid Lura to pick blackberries or wild plums or gather
forest roses, or to get fresh water at the spring, without being
intercepted by Le Noir and his offensive admiration. He seemed to be
ubiquitous! He met me everywhere--except in the presence of Major
Warfield. I did not tell my husband, because I feared that if I did he
would have killed Le Noir and died for the deed."
"Humph! it would have been 'good riddance of bad rubbish' in both
cases," muttered Herbert, under his teeth.
"But instead of telling him I confined myself strictly to my cabin. One
fatal day my husband, on leaving me in the morning, said that I need not
wait up for him at night, for that it would be very late when he came,
even if he came at all. He kissed me very fondly when he went away.
Alas! alas! it was the last--last time! At night I went to bed
disappointed, yet still so expectant that I could not sleep. I know not
how long I had waited thus, or how late it was when I heard a tap at the
outer door, and heard the bolt undrawn and a footstep enter and a low
voice asking:
"Is she asleep?" and Lura's reply in the affirmative. Never doubting it
was my husband, I lay there in pleased expectation of his entrance. He
came in and began to take off his coat in the dark. I spoke, telling him
that there were matches on the bureau. He did not reply, at which I was
surprised; but before I could repeat my words the outer door was burst
violently open, hurried footsteps crossed the entry, a light flashed
into my room, my husband stood in the door in full military uniform,
with a light in his hand and the aspect of an avenging demon on his
brow, and----
"Horror upon horrors! the half-undressed man in my chamber was Captain
Le Noir! I saw and swooned away!"
"But you were saved! you were saved!" gasped Herbert, white with
emotion.
"Oh, I was saved, but not from sorrow--not from shame! I awoke from that
deadly swoon to find myself alone, deserted, cast away! Oh, torn out
from the warmth and light and safety of my husband's heart, and hurled
forth shivering, faint and helpless upon the bleak world! and all this
in twenty-four hours. Ah, I did not lack the power of expression then!
happiness had never given it to me! anguish conferred it upon me; that
one fell stroke of fate cleft the rock of silence in my soul, and the
fountain of utterance gushed freely forth! I wrote to him, but my
letters might as well have been dropped into a well. I went to him, but
was spurned away. I prayed him with tears to have pity on our unborn
babe; but he laughed aloud in scorn and called it by an opprobrious
name! Letters, prayers, tears, were all in vain. He never had
acknowledged our marriage; he now declared that he never would do so; he
discarded me, disowned my child and forbade us ever to take his name!"
"Oh, Marah! and you but seventeen years of age! without a father or a
brother or a friend in the world to employ an advocate!" exclaimed
Herbert, covering his face with his hands and sinking back.
"Nor would I have used any of these agencies had I possessed them! If my
wifehood and motherhood, my affections and my helplessness were not
advocates strong enough to win my cause, I could not have borne to
employ others!"
"Oh, Marah, with none to pity or to help; it was monstrous to have
abandoned you so!"
"No; hush! consider the overwhelming evidence against me; I considered
it even in the tempest and whirlwind of my anguish, and never once
blamed and never once was angry with my husband; for I knew--not life,
but the terrible circumstantial evidence had ruined me!"
"Ay, but did you not explain it to him?"
"How could I, alas! when I did not understand it myself? How Le Noir
knew that Major Warfield was not expected home that fatal night--how he
got into my house, whether by conspiring with my little maid or by
deceiving her--or, lastly, how Major Warfield came to burst in upon him
so suddenly, I did not know, and do not to this day."
"But you told Major Warfield all that you have told me?"
"Oh, yes! again and again, calling heaven to witness my truth! In vain!
he had seen with his own eyes, he said. Against all I could say or do
there was built up a wall of scornful incredulity, on which I might have
dashed my brains out to no purpose."
"Oh, Marah, Marah! with none to pity or to save!" again exclaimed
Herbert.
"Yes," said the meek creature, bowing her head; "God pitied and helped
me! First he sent me a son that grew strong and handsome in body, good
and wise in soul. Then He kept alive in my heart faith and hope and
charity. He enabled me, through long years of unremitting and
ill-requited toil, to live on, loving against anger, waiting against
time, and hoping against despair!"
"Why did you leave your western home and come to Staunton, Marah?" asked
Herbert.
"To be where I could sometimes hear of my husband without intruding on
him. I took your widowed mother in, because she was his sister, though I
never told her who I was, lest she should wrong and scorn me, as he had
done. When she died I cherished you, Herbert, first because you were his
nephew, but now, dear boy, for your own sake also."
"And I, while I live, will be a son to you, madam! I will be your
constant friend at Hurricane Hall. He talks of making me his heir.
Should he persist in such blind injustice, the day I come into the
property I shall turn it all over to his widow and son. But I do not
believe that he will persist; I, for my part, still hope for the best."
"I also hope for the best, for whatever God wills is sure to happen, and
His will is surely the best! Yes, Herbert, I also hope--beyond the
grave!" said Marah Rocke, with a wan smile.
The little clock that stood between the tall, plated candlesticks on the
mantelpiece struck twelve, and Marah rose from her seat, saying:
"Traverse, poor fellow, will be home to his dinner. Not a word to him,
Herbert, please! I do not wish the poor lad to know how much he has
lost, and above all, I do not wish him to be prejudiced against his
father."
"You are right, Marah," said Herbert, "for if he were told, the natural
indignation that your wrongs would arouse in his heart would totally
unfit him to meet his father in a proper spirit in that event for which
I still hope--a future and a perfect family union!"
* * * * *
Herbert Greyson remained a week with his friends, during which time he
paid the quarter's rent, and relieved his adopted mother of that cause
of anxiety. Then he took leave and departed for Hurricane Hall, on his
way to Washington City, where he was immediately going to pass his
examination and await his appointment.