 Chapter 9. Mara Rock 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 Stoughton out to the forest-crowned hills beyond stood alone a little gray stone cottage in the midst of a garden enclosed 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 Grayson, the widow Rock and her son Travers. 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 Dr. Grayson died and his widow and son were left perfectly destitute, and it became necessary for Mrs. Grayson 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 Rock, whom she found only too glad to increase her meager income by letting half her little house to such unexceptionable tenants as the widow Grayson 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. Grayson, after which the widow Rock 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 see. Every year had Herbert written to his kind foster mother and his dear brother, as he calls 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 lay 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 mouldering 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, homemade 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 to 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-witted 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 Travers. On the left hand there was a dresser containing the little delftware, tea-service, and plates and dishes of the small family. Before the fire, with her knitting in her hand, sat Mara Rock, watching the kettle as it hung singing over the blaze and the oven of biscuits that sat baking upon the hearth. Mara Rock 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 accountants not often seen among the hard-working children of toil. Mara Rock was a very hard-working woman, sewing all day long and knitting through the twilight, and then again resuming her needle by candlelight, and sewing until midnight, and yet Mara Rock 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 Travers, 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 Travers 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 Travers was wonderfully hopeful and sanguine. And after supper the evening was generally spent by Travers 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 dear, 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, fully 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 arms 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, and 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 receded 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 you 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. Rock 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 set busy 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 gas 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. Rock 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, O 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 in credulity, 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 I am 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. We'll be in 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, in quiet 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 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. Rock, 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 by both my name and by my likeness to his sister, and received me with wonderful kindness, offered me a home under his roof, and promised for me an appointment to West Point. Are you not glad? Say, are you not glad? he exclaimed, jackosly clapping his hand on 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 a 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 sow, 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, recommended the young sailor. I was just saying that when I mentioned you in 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 woman, 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 the great deal more, that all 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, Travers, uneasily, going to her and taking her hand. Mother, what is the meaning of all of 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 Travers, 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 is 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. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of The Hidden Hand This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, The Hidden Hand, by E-D-E-N Southworth, Chapter 10, The Room of the Trap Door If you have hitherto concealed the sight, let it be tenable in your silence still, and whatsoever else doth have to-night. Give it in understanding, but no tongue. Shakespeare Capitola, meanwhile, in the care of the Major, arrived at Hurricane Hall, much to the disconfiture of good Mrs. Condiment, who was quite unprepared to expect the new inmate, and when Major Warfield said, Mrs. Condiment, this is your young lady, take her up to the best bedroom, where she can take off her bonnet and shawl. The worthy dame, thinking secretly, the old fool has gone and married a young wife, sure enough, a mere chit of a child, made a very deep curtsy and a very queer cough, and said, I am mortified, madam, at the fire not being made in the best bedroom, but then I was not warned of your coming, madam. Madam, is the old woman crazed? This child is no madam, she is Miss Black, my ward, the daughter of a deceased friend, sharply exclaimed old Hurricane. Excuse me, Miss, I did not know. I was unprepared to receive a young lady. Shall I attend you, Miss Black? said the old lady, in a mollified tone. If you please, said Capitola, who arose to follow her? Not expecting you, Miss, I have no proper room prepared. Most of them are not furnished, and in some the chimneys are fowl. Indeed, the only tolerable room I can put you in is the room with a trap door. If you would not object to it, said Mrs. Condiment. As with a candle in her hand, she preceded Capitola along the gloomy hall, and then opened a door that led into a narrow passage. A room with a trap door? That's a curious thing, but why should I object to it? I don't at all. I think I should rather like it, said Capitola. I will show it to you and tell you all about it, and then if you like it, well and good. If not, I shall have to put you in a room that leaks, and his follow's nest in the chimney, answered Mrs. Condiment, as she led the way along the narrow passages, and up and down dark back stairs, and through bare and deserted rooms, and along other passages, until she reached a remote chamber, opened the door, and invited her guest to enter. It was a large, shadowy room, through which the single candle shed such a faint uncertain light that at first Capitola could see nothing but black masses looming through the darkness. But when Mrs. Condiment advanced and set the candle upon the chimney piece, and Capitola's sight accommodated itself to the scene, she saw that upon the right of the chimney piece stood a tall tester bedstead, curtained with very dark crimson surge. On the left hand, thick curtains of the same color draped the two windows. Between the windows, directly opposite the bed, stood a dark mahogany dressing bureau, with a large looking glass, a wash stand in the left hand corner of the chimney piece, and a rocking chair, and two plane chairs completed the furniture of this room, that I am particular in describing, as upon the simple accident of its arrangement depended, upon two occasions, the life and honor of its occupant. There was no carpet on the floor, with the exception of a large, old turkey rug that was laid before the fireplace. Here, my dear, this room is perfectly dry and comfortable, and we always keep kindlings built up in the fireplace, ready to light in case a guest should come, said Mrs. Condiment, applying a match to the waste paper under the pine knots and logs that filled the chimney. Soon there arose a cheerful blaze that lighted up all the room, glowing on the crimson surge bed curtains and window curtains, and flashing upon the large, looking glass between them. There, my dear, sit down and make yourself comfortable, said Mrs. Condiment, drawing up the rocking chair. Capitola threw herself into it, and looked around and around the room, and then into the face of the old lady, saying, But what about the trap door? I see no trap door. Ah, yes, look, said Mrs. Condiment, lifting up the rug and revealing a large drop, some four feet square, that was kept up in its place by a short iron bolt. Now, my dear, take care of yourself, for this bolt slides very easily, and if, while you happened to be walking across this place, you were to push the bolt back, the trap door would drop, and you fall down, heaven knows where. Is there a cellar under there, inquired Capitola, gazing with interest upon the door? Lord knows, child, I don't. I did once make one of the niggermen let it down so I could look in it, but Lord, child, I saw nothing but a great black, deep vacuity, without bottom or sides. It put such a horror over me that I have never looked down there since, and never want to, I'm sure. Ugg, for goodness sake, what was the horrid thing made for, ejaculated Capitola, gazing as if fascinated by the trap. The Lord only knows, my dear, for it was made long before ever the house came into the major's family, but they do say, whispered Mrs. Condiment, mysteriously. Ah, what do they say? asked Capitola eagerly, throwing off her bonnet and shawl, and settling herself to hear some thrilling explanation. Mrs. Condiment slowly replaced the rug, drew another chair to the side of the young girl, and said, they do say it was a trap for Indians. A trap for Indians? Yes, my dear, you must know that this room belongs to the oldest part of the house. It was all built as far back as the old French and Indian war, but this room belonged to the part that dates back to the first settlement of the country. Then I shall like it better than any room in the house, for I dote on old places with stories to them. Go on, please. Yes, my dear, well, first of all, this place was a part of the grant of land given to the Lenors, and the first owner, old Henry Lenor, was said to be one of the grandest villains that ever was heard of. While you see, he lived out here in his hunting lodge, which is this part of the house. Oh, my! Then this very room was a part of the old pioneer hunter's lodge? Yes, my dear, and they do say that he had this place made as a trap for the Indians. You see, they say he was on terms of friendship with the Sakapus, a little tribe of Indians that was nearly wasted away. Though among the few that was left there were several braves. Well, he wanted to buy a certain large tract of land from this tribe, and they were all willing to sell it except those half a dozen warriors who wanted it for camping around. So what does this awful villain do but lay a snare for them? He makes a great feast in his lodge and invites his red brothers to come to it, and they come. Then he proposes that they stand upon his blanket, and all swear eternal brotherhood, which he made the poor souls believe was the right way to do it. Then when they all six stood close together as they could stand, with the hands held up, touching above their heads, all of a sudden the black villain sprung the bolt, the trap fell, and the six men went down. Down, the Lord knows where. Oh, that is horrible, horrible, cried Capitola. But where do you think they fell to? I tell you, the Lord only knows. They say that it is a bottomless abyss, with no outlet but one crooked one, miles long, that reaches to the demon's punch-bowl. But if there is a bottom to that abyss, the bottom is strewn with human bones. Oh, horrible, most horrible, exclaimed Capitola. Perhaps you are afraid to sleep here by yourself. If so, there's the damp room. Oh no, oh no, I am not afraid. I have been in too much deadly peril from the living ever to fear the dead. No, I like the room, with it strange legend. But tell me, did that human devil escape without punishment from the tribe of the murdered victims? Lord child, how are they to know of what was done? There wasn't a man left to tell the tale. Besides, the tribe was now brought down to a few old men, women, and children. So when he showed a bill of sale for the land he wanted, signed by the six braves, their marks, and six blood-red arrows, there was none to contradict him. How was his villainy found out? Well, it was said he married, had a family, and prospered for a long while, but that the poor succubus always suspected him, and bore a long grudge. And that when the sons of the murdered warriors grew up to be powerful braves, one night they set upon the house, and massacred the whole family, except the eldest son, a lad of ten, who escaped, and ran away, and gave the alarm to the blockhouse, where there were soldiers stationed. It is said that after killing and scalping father, mother, and children, the savages threw the dead bodies down that trapdoor. And they had just set fire to the house, and were dancing their wild dance around it, when the soldiers arrived, and dispersed the party, and put out the fire. Oh, what bloody, bloody days! Yes, my dear, and as I told you before, if that horrible pit has any bottom, that bottom is strewn with human skeletons. It is an awful thought. As I said, my dear, if you feel at all afraid, you can have another room. Afraid? What of? Those skeletons supposing them to be there cannot hurt me. I am not afraid of the dead. I only dread the living, and not them much either, said Capitola. Well, my dear, you will want a waiting woman, anyhow, and I think I will send Pitapat to wait on you. She can sleep on a pallet in your room, and be some company. And who is Pitapat, Mrs. Condiment? Pitapat. Lord child, she is the youngest of the housemaids. I have called her Pitapat ever since she was a little one beginning to walk, when she used to steal away from her mother. Dorcas, the cook, and I would hear her little feet coming Pitapat, Pitapat, up the dark stairs to my room. As it was often the only sound to be heard in the still house, I grew to call my little visitor Pitapat. Then let me have Pitapat by all means. I like company, especially company that I can send away when I choose. Very well, my dear, and now I think you'd better smooth your hair and come down with me to tea, for it is full time, and the major, as you may know, is not the most patient of men. Capitola took a brush from her traveling bag, hastily arranged her black ringlets, and announced herself ready. They left the room and traversed the same labyrinth of passages, stairs, empty rooms and halls back to the dining-room, where a comfortable fire burned, and a substantial supper was spread. Old Hurricane took Capitola's hand with a hardy grasp, and placed her in a chair at the side, and then took his oncy at the foot of the table. Mrs. Condiment sat at the head, and poured out the tea. Uncle said Capitola suddenly, What is under the trap door in my room? What? Have they put you in that room? exclaimed the old man, hastily looking up. There was no other prepared, sir, said the housekeeper. Besides, I like it very well, Uncle, said Capitola. Hump, hump, hump! grunted the old man, only half satisfied. But, Uncle, what is under the trap door? persisted Capitola. What's under it? Oh, I don't know. An old cave that was once used as a dry cellar, until an underground stream broke through and made it too damp, so it is said. I never explored it. But, Uncle, what about the— Here Mrs. Condiment stretched out her foot, and trod upon the toes of Capitola so sharply that it made her stop short, while she dexteriously changed the conversation by asking the major if he would not send wool to tip-top in the morning for another bag of coffee. Soon after supper was over, Capitola, saying that she was tired, bade her Uncle good night, and attended by her little black-maid pit-a-pat, who Mrs. Condiment had called up for the purpose, retired to her distant chamber. There were already collected here three trunks, which the liberality of her Uncle had filled. As soon as she had gotten and locked the door, she detached one of the strongest traps from her largest trunk, and then turned up the rug, and secured the end of the strap to the ring in the trap door. Then she withdrew the bolt, and holding onto one end of the strap, gently lowered the trap, and kneeling, gazed down into an awful black void, without boundaries, without sight, without sounds, except a deep, faint, subterranean roaring as of water. Bring the light pit-a-pat, and hold it over this place, and take care you don't fall in, said Capitola. Come, as I've got a pit in my name, and you've got a pit in yours, we'll see if we can't make something of this third pit. Deed, eyes frayed, Miss, said the poor little darky. Afraid of what? Ghosts. Nonsense, I'll agree to lay every ghost you see. The little-maid approached, candle in hand. But in such a gingerly sort of way, that Capitola seized the light from her hand, and, stooping, held it down as far as she could reach, and gazed once more into the abyss. But this only made the horrible darkness visible. No object caught or reflected a single ray of light, always black, hollow, void, and silent, except the faint, deep, distant roaring as of subterranean water. Capitola pushed the light as far down as she possibly could reach, and then, yielding to a strange fascination, dropped it into the abyss. It went down, down, down, down into the darkness, until far below it glimmered out of sight. Then, with an awful shudder, Capitola pulled up and fastened the trapdoor, laid down the rug, and said her prayers, and went to bed by the fire-light, with little pit-a-pat sleeping on a pallet. The last thought of Cap before falling to sleep was, it is awful to go to bed over such a horrible mystery, but I will be a hero. END OF CHAPTER X Byron Early the next morning, Capitola arose, made her toilet, and went out to explore the outer walls of her part of the old house, to discover, if possible, some external entrance into the unknown cavity under her room. It was a bright, cheerful, healthy, autumnal morning, well adapted to dispel all clouds of mystery and superstition. Heaps of crimson and golden-hewed leaves, glimmering with whorefrost, lay drifted against the old walls, and when these were brushed away by the busy hands of the young girl, they revealed nothing but the old, moldering foundation, not a vestige of a cellar door or window was visible. Capitola abandoned the fruitless search, and turned to go into the house, and, saying to herself, I'll think no more of it, I dare say, after all, it is nothing but a very dark cellar without window and with a well, and the story of the murders and of the skeletons is all moonshine. She ran into the dining-room and took her seat at the breakfast-table. Old Hurricane was just then storming away at his factotum wool for some misdemeanor, the nature of which Capitola did not hear. For, upon her appearance, he suffered his wrath to subside, and a few reverberating low-thunders gave his ward a grumpy good morning, and sat down to his breakfast. After breakfast, Old Hurricane took his great-coat and old cock-tat, and stormed forth upon the plantation to blow up his lazy overseer, Mr. Will E. Z., and his idle negroes, who had loitered or frolicked away all the days of their master's absence. Mrs. Condiment went away to mix a plum pudding for dinner, and Cap was left alone. After wandering through the lower rooms of the house, the stately old-fashioned drawing-room, the family parlor, the dining-room, etc., Cap found her way through all the narrow back passages and steep little staircases back to her own chamber. The chamber looked quite different by daylight, the cheerful wood fire burning in the chimney right before her, opposite the door by which she entered, the crimson draped windows, with the rich old mahogany bureau and dressing-glass standing between them on her left, the polished dark oak floor, the comfortable rocking chair, the new work-stand, placed there for her use that morning, and her own well-filled trunks standing in the corners, looked altogether too cheerful to associate with dark thoughts. Besides, Capitola had not the least particle of gloom, superstition, or marvellousness in her disposition. She loved old houses and old legends well enough to enjoy them, but was not sufficiently credulous to believe or cowardly to fear them. She had, besides a pleasant morning's occupation before her, and unpacking her three trunks and arranging her wardrobe and her possessions, which were all upon the most liberal scale, for major war-field at every city where they had stopped, had given his poor little protégé a virtual carte blanche for purchases, having said to her, Capitola, I'm an old bachelor. I've not the least idea what a young girl requires. All I know is that you have nothing but your clothes, and must-mots sewing, and knitting needles, and brushes, and scissors and combs, and boxes, and smelling-bottles, and tooth-powder, and such. So come along with me to one of those vanity fairs they call fancy stores, and get what you want. All foot the bill! And Capitola, who firmly believed that she had the most sacred of claims upon major war-field, whose resources she also supposed to be unlimited, did not fail to indulge her taste for rich and costly toys, and supplied herself with a large ivory dressing-case, lined with velvet, and furnished with ivory-handled combs and brushes, silver boxes and crystal-bottles, a paper-mache work-box with gold thimble, needle-case, and perforator, and gold-mounted scissors and winders, and an ebony writing-desk with silver-mounted crystal-standishes. Each of these, boxes and desk, were filled with all things requisite in the several departments, and now as Capitola unpacked them and arranged them upon the top of her bureau, it was with no small-degree of appreciation. The rest of the forenoon was spent in arranging the best articles of her wardrobe in her bureau drawers. Having locked the remainder in her trunks and carefully smoothed her hair and dressed herself in a brown marino, she went downstairs and sought out Mrs. Condiment, whom she found in the housekeeper's little room, and to whom she said, Now Mrs. Condiment, if uncle has any needle-work wanted to be done, any buttons to be sewed on, or anything of that kind, just let me have it. I've got a beautiful work-box, and I'm just dying to use it. My dear Miss Black, please to call me Capitola, or even Cap. I never was called Miss Black in my life until I came here, and I don't like it at all. Well then, my dear Miss Cap, I wish you would wait till tomorrow, for I just came in here in a great hurry to get a glass of brandy out of the cupboard to put in the sauce for the plum pudding, as dinner will be on the table in ten minutes. With a shrug of her little shoulders, Capitola left the housekeeper's room, and hurried through the central front hall, and out at the front door, to look about and breathe the fresh air for a while. As she stepped upon the front piazza, she saw Major Warfield walking up the steep lawn, followed by Wool, leading a pretty modelled iron-grey pony, with a side saddle on his back. Ah, I'm glad you're down, Cap. Come, look at this pretty pony. He is good for nothing as a working-horse, and is too light to carry my weight, and so I intend to give him to you. You must learn to ride, said the old man, coming up the steps. Give him to me? I learn to ride? Oh, uncle, oh, uncle, I should go perfectly crazy with joy, exclaimed Cap, dancing and clapping her hands with delight. Oh, well, a tumble or two in learning will bring you back to your senses, I reckon. Oh, uncle, oh, uncle, when shall I begin? You shall take your first tumble immediately after dinner, when, being well-filled, you will not be so brittle and apt to break and falling. Oh, uncle, I shall not fall. I feel I shant. I feel I have a natural gift for holding on. Come, come, get in, get in. I want my dinner, said old Hurricane, driving his word in before him to the dining-room, where the dinner was smoking upon the table. After dinner, Cap, with will for a riding-master, took her first lesson in equestrianarianism. She had the four great requisites for forming a good rider, a well-adapted figure, a fondness for the exercise, perfect fearlessness, and presence of mind. She was not once in danger of losing her seat, and during that single afternoon's exercise, she made considerable progress in learning to manage her steed. Old Hurricane, whom the genial autumn afternoon had tempted out to smoke his pipe in the armchair on the porch, was a pleased spectator of her performances, and expressed his opinion that in time she would become the best rider in the neighborhood, and that she should have the best riding dress and cap that could be made at tip-top. Just now, in lack of an equestrian dress, poor Cap was parading around the lawn with her head bare, and her hair flying, and her merino skirt exhibiting more angles than grace. It was while Old Hurricane still sat smoking his pipe and making his comments, and Capitola still ambled around and around the lawn, that a horseman suddenly appeared galloping as fast as the steep nature of the ground would admit up toward the house, and before they could form an idea who he was, the horse was at the block, and the rider dismounted and standing before Major Warfield. Why, Herbert, my boy, back so soon, we didn't expect you for a week to come. This is sudden indeed, so much the better, so much the better. Glad to see you, lad, exclaimed Old Hurricane, getting up and heartily shaking the hand of his nephew. Capitola came ambling up, and in the effort to spring nimbly from her saddle tumbled off, much to the delay of wool, who grinned from ear to ear, and of Old Hurricane who with, and I said so, burst into a roar of laughter. Herbert Grayson sprang to assist her, but before he reached the spot Capit picked herself up, straightened her disordered dress, and now she ran to meet and shake hands with him. There was such a sparkle of joy and glow of affection in the meeting between these two. The Old Hurricane, who sought, suddenly hushed his laugh and grunted to himself. Humpf, humpf, humpf, I like that. That's better than I could have planned myself. Let that go on, and then, Gabe Lenore, we'll see under what name and head the Old's divided manner will be held. Before his mental soliloquy was concluded, Herbert and Capitola came up to him. He welcomed Herbert again with great cordiality, and then called to his man to put up the horses, and bade the young people to follow him into the house, as the air was getting chilly. And how did you find your good friends, lad, inquired Old Hurricane, when they had reached the sitting parlor? Oh, very well, sir, and very grateful for your offered kindness, and indeed, so anxious to express their gratitude, that I shortened my visit and came away immediately to tell you. Right, lad, right, you come by the down-coach? Yes, sir, and got off at tip-top, where I hired a horse to bring me here. I must ask you to let one of your men take him back to Mr. Mary at the antlers in tomorrow. Surely, surely, lad, we'll shall do it. And so, Herbert, the poor woman was delighted at the prospect of better times, so to Old Hurricane, with a little glow of benevolent self-satisfaction. Oh, yes, sir, delighted beyond all measure. Poor thing, poor thing, see young folks how easy it is for the wealthy by sparing a little of their superfluous means to make the poor and virtuous happy. And the boy, Herbert, the boy. Oh, sir, delighted for himself, but still more delighted for his mother, for her joy was such as to astonish and even alarm me. Before that I had that Mara Rock, a proud woman, but what, say that again, exclaimed Major Warfield. I say that I thought she was a proud woman, but thought who was a proud woman, sir, roared Old Hurricane. Mara Rock replied the young man with wonder. Major Warfield started up, seized the chair upon which he had sat, and struck it upon the ground with such force as to shatter it to pieces. Then turning, he strode up and down the floor with such violence that the two young people gazed after him in consternation and fearful expectancy. Presently he turned suddenly, strode up to Herbert Grayson, and stood before him. His face was purple, his veins swollen, and they stood out upon his forehead like cords. His eyes were protruded and glaring, his mouth clenched until the grisly gray mustache and beard were drawn in. His whole huge frame was quivering from head to foot. It was impossible to tell what passion, whether rage, grief, or shame, the most possessed him. For all three seemed tearing his giant frame to pieces. For an instant he stood speechless, and Herbert feared that he would fall into a fit, but the old giant was too strong for that. For one short moment he stood thus, and in a terrible voice he asked, Young man, did you? Did you know the shame that you dashed into my face with the name of that woman? Sir, I know nothing but that she is the best and dearest of her sex, exclaimed Herbert, beyond all measure amazed at what he heard and saw. Best and dearest, thundered the old man. Oh, idiot, is she still a siren and are you a dup? But that cannot be. No, sir, it is I whom you both would dup. Ah, I see it all now. That is why you artfully concealed her name from me, until you had won my promise. It shall not serve either you or her, sir. I break my promise thus, bending and snapping his own cane, and flinging the fragments behind his back. There, sir, when you can make those ends of dry cedar grow together again and bear green leaves, you may hope to reconcile Ira Warfield and Mara Rock. I break my promise, sir, as she broke. The old man suddenly sank back into the nearest chair, dropped his shaggy head and face into his hands, and remained trembling from head to foot, while the convulsive heaving of his chest and the rising and falling of his huge shoulders betrayed that his heart was nearly bursting, with such suppressed sobs, as only can be forced from manhood by the fiercest anguish. The young people looked on in wonder, all and pity, and when their eyes met, those of Herbert silently inquired, what can all this mean? Those of Capitola mutely answered, heaven only knows. In his deep pity for the old man's terrible anguish, Herbert could feel no shame or resentment for the false accusation made upon himself. Indeed, his noble and candid nature easily explained all as the ravings of some heart-rending remembrance. Waiting, therefore, until the violent convulsions of the old man's frame had somewhat subsided, Herbert went to him, and with a low and respectful inflection of voice said, Uncle, if you think that there was any collusion between myself and Mrs. Rock, you wrongest both. You will remember that when I met you in New York, I had not seen or heard from her for years, nor had I then any expectation of ever seeing you. The subject of the poor widow came up between us accidentally, and if it is true that I admitted to call her by name, it must have been because we both then felt too tenderly by her, to call her anything else but the poor widow, the poor mother, the good woman, and so on. And all this she is still. The old man without raising his head held out one hand to his nephew, saying in a voice still trembling with emotion. Herbert, I wronged you. Forgive me. Herbert took and pressed that rugged and hairy old hand to his lips, and said, Uncle, I do not in the least know what is the cause of your present emotion, but emotion? Demi, sir, what do you mean by emotion? Am I a man to give way to emotion? Demi, sir, mind what you say. Word the old lion, getting up and shaking himself free of all weaknesses. I merely meant to say, sir, that if I could possibly be of any service to you, I am entirely at your orders. Then go back to that woman and tell her never to dare to utter, or even to think of my name again if she values her life. Sir, you do not mean it, and as for Mrs. Rock, she is a good woman I feel at my duty to uphold. Good. Ugg, ugg, ugg, I'll command myself. I'll not give way again. Good. Ah, lad, it is quite plain to me now that you are an innocent dupe. Tell me now for instance. Do you know anything of that woman's life before she came to reside at Stoughton? Nothing, but from what I've seen of her since, I'm sure she always was good. Did she never mention her former life at all? Never, but mind, I hold to my faith in her, and would stake my salvation on her integrity, said Herbert warmly. Then you'd lose it, lad, that's all. But I have an explanation to make to you, Herbert. You must give me a minute or two of your company alone in the library before tea. And so, saying, Major Warfield arose, and led the way across the hall to the library, that was immediately back of the back drawing-room. Throwing himself into a leathern chair beside the writing-table, he motioned for his companion to take the one on the opposite side. A low fire smoldering on the hearth before them so dimly lighted the room that the young man arose again to pull the bell-rope, but the other interrupted with. No, you need not ring for lights, Herbert. My story is one that should be told in the dark. Listen, lad, but drop your eyes the while. I am all attention, sir. Herbert, the poet says that, at thirty, man suspects himself a fool, knows it at forty, and reforms his rule. But, boy, at the ripe age of forty-five, I succeeded in achieving the most sublime folly of my life. I should have taken a degree in madness, and been raised to a professor's chair in some college of lunacy. Herbert, at the age of forty-five, I fell in love with, and married a girl of sixteen, out of a log cabin. Merely forsooth, because she had a pearly skin like the leaf of the white japonica, soft gray eyes like a timid fawns, and a voice like a cooing turtledoves. Because those delicate cheeks flushed, and those soft eyes fell when I spoke to her, and the cooing voice trembled when she replied, because the delicate face brightened when I came, and faded when I turned away, because she wept with delight when I gave her a smile, and trembled with fear at my frown, etc. Because she adored me as a sort of god. I loved her as an angel, and married her. Married her secretly, for fear of the ridicule of my brother officers. Put her in a pastoral log cabin in the woods below the blackhouse, and visited her there by stealth, like Numa did his nymph in the cave. But I was watched. My hidden treasure was discovered and coveted by a younger and prettier fellow than myself. Perdition! I cannot tell the story in detail. One night I came home very late, and quite unexpectedly, and found this man in my wife's cabin. I broke the man's head and ribs, and left him for dead. I tore the woman out of my heart, and cauterized its bleeding wounds. This man was Gabriel Lenore. Satan burned him for ever. This woman was Mara Rock. God forgive her. I could have divorced the woman, but as I did not dream of ever marrying again, I did not care to drag my shame before a public tribunal. There, you know all, let the subject sink forever, said old Hurricane, wiping great drops of sweat from his laboring brows. Uncle, I have heard your story and believe you, of course. But I am bound to tell you, that without even having heard your poor wife's defense, I believe and uphold her to be innocent. I think you have been as grossly deceived as she has been fearfully wronged, and that time and providence will prove this, exclaimed Herbert fervently. A horrible laugh of scorn was his only answer, as old Hurricane arose, shook himself and led the way back to the parlor. End of CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. And now her narrow kitchen walls stretched away into stately halls, the weary wheel to a spin it turned, the tallow candle and astral burned. A manly form at her side she saw, and joy was duty, and love was law. Whittier. On the same Saturday morning that Herbert Grayson hurried away from his friend's cottage to travel post to Hurricane Hall for the sole purpose of accelerating the coming of her good fortune, Mara Rock walked about the house with a step so light, with eyes so bright, and cheeks so blooming, that one might have thought that years had rolled backward in their course and made her a young girl again. Traverse gazed upon her indy light, reversing the words of the text, he said, We must call you no longer Mara, which is bitter, but we must call you Naomi, which is beautiful, mother. Young flatterer, she answered, smiling and slightly flushing, but tell me truly, Traverse, am I very much faded? Half-care and toil and grief made me look old. You old, exclaimed the boy, running his eyes over her beaming face and graceful form with a look of non-comprehension that might have satisfied her, but did not, for she immediately repeated, Yes, do I look old? Indeed, I do not ask from vanity, child. It little becomes me to be vain, but I do wish to look well in someone's eyes. I wish there was a looking-glass in the house, mother, that it might tell you, you should be called Naomi instead of Mara. That is just what he used to say to me in the old happy time, the time in paradise, before the serpent entered. What he, mother? Your father boy, of course. That was the first time she had ever mentioned his father to her son, and now she spoke of him with such a flush of joy and hope that even while her words referred darkly to the past, her eyes looked brightly to the future. All this, taken with the events of the preceding evening, greatly bewildered the mind of Traverse and agitated him with the wildest conjectures. Mother, will you tell me about my father, and also what is beyond this promised kindness of Major Warfield that has made you so happy, he asked? Not now, my boy, dear boy, not now. I must not, I cannot, I dare not yet. Wait a few days, and you shall know all. Oh, it is hard to keep a secret from my boy. But then it is not only my secret, but another's. You do not think hard of me for withholding it now, do you, Traverse? She asked, affectionately. No, dear mother, of course I don't. I know you must be right, and I am glad to see you happy. Happy? Oh, boy, you don't know how happy I am. I did not think any human being could ever feel so joyful in this airing world, much less me. One cause of this excessive joyful feeling must be from the contrast, else it were dreadful to be so happy. Mother, I don't know what you mean, said Traverse, uneasily, for he was too young to understand these paradoxes of feeling and thought, and there were moments when he feared for his mother's reason. Oh, Traverse, think of it, eighteen long, long years of estrangement, sorrow and dreadful suspense, eighteen long, long weary years of patience against anger, and loving against hatred, and hoping against despair, your young mind cannot grasp it, your very life is not so long. I was seventeen then, I am thirty-five now, and after wasting all my young years of womanhood, and loving, hoping, longing, lo, the light of life has dawned at last. God save you, mother, said the boy, fervently, for her wild unnatural joy continued to augment his anxiety. Ah, Traverse, I dare not tell you the secret now, and yet I am always letting it out, because my heart overflows from its fullness. Ah, boy, many, many weary nights have I lain awake from grief. But last night I lay awake from joy. Think of it. The boy's only reply to this was a deep sigh. He was becoming seriously alarmed. I never saw her so excited. I wish she would get calm, was his secret thought. Then, with the design of changing the current of her ideas, he took off his coat and said, Mother, my pocket is half torn out, and though there's no danger at my losing, a great deal out of it. Still, I'll get you, please, to sew it in while I mend the fence. Sew the pocket, mend the fence? Well, smiled Mrs. Rock, we'll do so if it will amuse you. The mended fence will be a convenience to the next tenant, and the patched coat will do for some poor boy. Ah, Traverse, we must be very good to the poor, in more ways than in giving them what we do not ourselves need, for we shall know what it is to have been poor, she concluded, in more serious tones than she had yet used. Traverse was glad of this, and went out to his work feeling somewhat better satisfied. The delirium of happiness lasted intermittently a whole week, during the last three days of which Mrs. Rock was constantly going to the door and looking up the road, as if expecting someone. The mail came from Tip Top to Stoughton only once a week, on Saturday morning. Therefore, when Saturday came again, she sent her son to the post office saying, if they do not come today they will surely write. Traverse hastened with all his speed, and got there so soon that he had to wait for the mail to be opened. Meanwhile, at home the widow walked the floor in restless joyous anticipation, or went to the door and strained her eyes up the road to watch for Traverse, and perhaps for someone else's coming. At last she discerned her son, who came down the road walking rapidly, smiling triumphantly, and holding a letter up to view. She ran out of the gate to meet him, seized and kissed the letter, and then, with her face burning, her heart palpitating, and her fingers trembling, she hastened into the house, threw herself into the little low chair by the fire, and opened the letter. It was from Herbert, and read thus, Hurricane Hall, November 30th, 1843 My dearest and best Mrs. Rock, may God strengthen you to read the few bitter lines I have to write. Most unhappily, Major Warfield did not know exactly who you were when he promised so much. Upon learning your name he withdrew all his promises. At night, in his library, he told me all your early history. Having heard all, the very worst, I believe you as pure as an angel, so I told him. So I would uphold my life and seal with my death. Trust yet in God, and believe in the earnest respect and affection of your grateful and attached son, Herbert Grayson. P.S. For henceforth I shall call you mother. Quietly she finished reading, pressed the letter again to her lips, reached it to the fire, saw it like her hopes shrivel up to ashes, and then she arose, and with her trembling fingers clinging together walked up and down the floor. There were no tears in her eyes, but oh, such a look of unutterable woe on her pale, blank, despairing face. Trevor swatched her, and saw that something had gone frightfully wrong, that some awful revolution of fate or revulsion of feeling had passed over her in this dread hour. Cautiously he approached her. Gently he laid his hand upon her shoulder. Tenderly he whispered, Mother. She turned and looked strangely at him, then exclaiming, Oh, Trevor's, how happy I was this day week! She burst into a flood of tears. Trevor's threw his arm around his mother's waist, and half coaxed and half bore her to a low chair, and sat her in it, and knelt by her side, and embracing her fondly, whispered, Mother, don't weep so bitterly. You have me. Am I nothing? Mother, I love you more than son ever loved his mother, or suitor his sweetheart, or husband his wife. Oh, is my love nothing, Mother? Only Sobs answered him. Mother, he pleaded. You are all the world to me. Let me be all the world to you. I can be it, Mother. I can be it. Try me. I will make every effort for my Mother, and the Lord will bless us. Still no answer but convulsive Sobs. Oh, Mother, Mother, I will try to do for you more than ever son did for Mother or man for woman before. Dear Mother, if you will not break my heart by weeping so. The sobbing obeyed it a little, partly from exhaustion, and partly from the soothing influences of the boy's loving words. Listen, dear Mother, what I will do. In the olden times of chivalry, young knights bound themselves by sacred vows to the service of some lady, and labored long and perilously in her honor. For her blood was spilled. For her fields were won. But Mother never yet toiled night in the battlefield for his lady love, as I will in the battle of life for my dearest Lady, my own Mother. She reached out her hand and silently pressed his. Come, come, said Traverse, lift up your head and smile. We are young yet, both you and I. For, after all, you are not much older than your son, and we, too, will journey up and down the hills of life together, all in all to each other. And when at last we are old, as we shall be when you are seventy-seven, and I am sixty, we will leave all our fortune that we shall have made to found a home for widows and orphans, as we were, and we will pass out and go to heaven together. Now, indeed, this poor modern haggar looked up and smiled at the oddity of her ishmael's far-reaching thought. In that poor household grief might not be indulged. Mara Rock took down her work-basket and sat down to finish a lot of shirts, and Traverse went out with his horse and saw to look for a job at Cutting Wood, for twenty-five cents a cord—small beginnings of the fortune that was to found and endow asylums. But many a fortune has been commenced upon less. Mara Rock had managed to dismiss her boy with a smile, but that was the last effort of nature. As soon as he was gone, and she found herself alone, tear after tear welled up in her eyes, and rolled down her pale cheeks, sigh after sigh heaved her bosom. Ah, the transitory joy of the past week, had been but the lightning's arrowy course scathing where illumined. She felt as if this last blow that had struck her down from the height of hope to the depth of despair had broken her heart, as if the power of reaction was gone, and she mourned as one who would not be comforted. While she sat thus the door opened, and before she was aware of his presence, Herbert Grayson entered the room and came softly to her side. There she could speak to him, he dropped upon one knee at her feet, and bowed his young head lowly over the hand that he took and pressed to his lips. Then he arose and stood before her. This was not unnatural or exaggerated. It was his way of expressing the reverential sympathy and compassion he felt for her strange, lifelong murderdom. Herbert, you hear? Why we only got your letter this morning, she said, in tones of gentle inquiry, as she arose in place to chair for him. Yes, I could not bear to stay away from you at such a time. I came up in the same mail-coach that brought my letter, but I kept myself out of Traverse's sight, for I could not bear to intrude upon you in the first hour of your disappointment, said Herbert, in a broken voice. Oh, that need not have kept you away, dear boy. I did not cry much. I am used to trouble, you know. I shall get over this also, after a little while, and things will go on in the old way, said Mara Rock, struggling to repress the rising emotion that, however, overcame her. For dropping her head upon her sailor boy's shoulder, she burst into a flood of tears and wept plentiously. Dear mother, be comforted, he said. Dear mother, be comforted. Wittier. Dear Mara, I cannot understand your strong attachment to that bronzed and grizzled old man, who has, besides, treated you so barbariously, said Herbert. Is he bronzed and gray, asked Mara, 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 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 Mara, dropping her head upon her hand and sliding into reminences of the past. Dear Mara, 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. Rock, 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-wishes 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 rain in front of the old oak tree that stood in front of our cabin, to breathe his horse, or to ask for a draw 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 tone seemed to strengthen me, while he stayed his present seemed to protect me. I, such protection as vultures give to doves, covering and devouring them, muttered Herbert to himself. Mrs. Rock, too, absorbed in her reminences 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 excess of 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. Humpf! grunted Herbert inwardly, for comment. But he built 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, and rich 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 an 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, Me, thanks, the lady, death protest too much. I was already blushing deeply at the unwanted 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 Phine, 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 still out to reconnoitre my calm. Among them was Captain Lenore, who, after he had discovered my retreat, picked acquaintance with Loura, 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 messroom 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. Lenore 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 Lenore, 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 Lenore 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 finally 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 storms, said Herbert. I twas but a lull in the storm, or rather before the storm. I do think that from the time of that duel Lenore had resolved upon our rune. 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 Laura to pick blackberries or wild plums, or gather forest roses, or to get fresh water at the spring, without being intercepted by Lenore 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 Lenore, and died for the deed. Humpf! it would have been good riddance of bad rubbish and 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 home, 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 bull undrawn and a footstep enter, and a low voice asking, is she asleep? And Laura'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 Lenore. 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 a lot in scorn, and called it by an appropriate name. Letters, prayers, tears were all in vain. He never had acknowledged our marriage. He now declared that he would never do so. He discarded me, disowned my child, and forbade us ever to take his name. Oh, Mara, 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 wife had in motherhood, my affections and my helplessness were not advocates strong enough to win my cause, I could not have born to employ others. Oh, Mara, 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, but not he, the terrible circumstantial evidence had ruined me. I, but did you not explain it to him? How could I, alas, when I did not understand it myself? How Lenore 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, Mara, Mara, 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 enhancement body, good and wise and 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 Stoughton, Mara, 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 Mara Rock, with a wandsmile. The little clock that stood between the tall plated candlesticks on the mantelpiece struck twelve, and Mara rose from her seat, saying, Travers, 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, Mara, 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, and that event for which I still hope, a future and a perfect family union. Herbert Grayson 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. CHAPTER XIV The Wasting Heart Then she took up the burden of life again, saying only it might have been. Alas for them both, alas for us all, who vainly the dreams of you three call. Four of all said words of lips or pen. The saddest are these. It might have been. Wittier By the tacit consent of all parties, the meteor hope that had crossed and vanished from Mara Rock's path of life was never mentioned again. Mother and son went about their separate tasks. Travers worked at jobs all day, studying at night, and went twice a week to recite his lessons to his patron, Dr. Day, at Willow Hill. Mara sewed as usual all day, and prepared her boys' meals at the proper times. But day by day her cheeks grew paler, her form thinner, her step fainter. Her son saw this decline with great alarm. Sometimes he found her in a deep, troubled reverie, from which she would awaken with heavy sighs. Sometimes he surprised her in tears. At such times he did not trouble her with questions, that he instinctively felt she could not or would not answer. But he came gently to her side, put his arms about her neck, stooped and laid her face against his breast, and whispered assurances of his true love, and his boyish hopes of getting on, of making a fortune, and bringing brighter days for her. And she would return his caresses, and with a faint smile reply that he must not mind her, that she was only a little low-spirited, that she would get over it soon. But as day followed day she grew visibly thinner and weaker. Dark shadows settled under her hollow eyes and in her sunken cheeks. One evening, while standing at the table washing up their little tea-service, she suddenly dropped into her chair and fainted. Nothing could exceed the alarm and distress of poor Trevers. He hastened to fix her in an easy position, bathed her face in vinegar and water, the only restoratives in their meager stock, and called upon her by every loving epithet to live and speak to him. The fit yielded to his efforts, and presently, with a few fluttering inspirations, her breath returned, and her eyes opened. Her very first words were attempts to reassure her dismayed boy. But Trevers could no more be flattered. He entreated his mother to go at once to bed. And though the next morning when she arose, she looked not worse than usual. Trevers left home with a heart full of trouble. But instead of turning down the street to go to his work in the town, he turned up the street toward the wooded hills beyond, now glowing in their gorgeous autumn foliage and burning in the brilliant morning sun. A half-hour's walk brought him to a high and thickly wooded hill, up which a private road led through a thicket of trees to a handsome, gray-stone country seat, situated in the midst of beautifully ornamented grounds, and known as Willow Heights, the residence of Dr. William Day, a retired physician of great repute, and a man of earnest piety. He was a widower with one fair daughter, Clara, a girl of fourteen, then absent at boarding school. Trevers had never seen this girl, but his one great admiration was the beautiful Willow Heights and its worthy proprietor. He opened the highly ornate iron gate and entered up an avenue of Willows that led up to the house, a two-storied edifice of gray stone, with full-length front piazzas above and below. Arrived at the door he rang the bell, which was answered promptly by a good-humored-looking negro-boy, who at once showed Trevers to the library upstairs, where the good doctor sat at his books. Dr. Day was at this time about fifty years of age, tall and stoutly built, with a fine head and face, shaded by soft, bright, flaxen hair and beard, thoughtful and kindly dark blue eyes, and an earnest, penetrating smile that reached like sunshine the heart of any one upon whom it shone. He wore a cheerful-looking, flowered, chintz dressing-gown corded around his waist, his feet were thrust into embroidered slippers, and he sat in his elbow-chair at his reading-table, pouring over a huge folio-volume. The whole aspect of the man and of his surroundings was kindly cheerfulness. The room opened upon the upper front piazza, and the windows were all up to admit the bright morning sun and genial air, at the same time that there was a glowing fire in the grate to temper its chilliness. Trevers's soft step across the carpeted floor was not heard by the doctor, who was only made aware of his presence by his stepping between the sunshine and his table. Then the doctor arose, and with his intense smile extended his hand and greeted the boy with, Well, Trevor Sled, you are always welcome. I did not expect you until night as usual, but as you are here so much the better. Got your exercises already, eh? Heaven bless you, lad, what is the matter, inquired the good man suddenly, on first observing the boy's deeply troubled looks. My mother, sir, my mother, was all that Trevers could at first utter. Your mother, my dear lad, what about her? Is she ill? inquired the doctor, with interest. Oh, sir, I am afraid she is going to die, exclaimed the boy in a choking voice, struggling hard to keep from betraying his manhood by bursting into tears. Going to die? Oh, poo, poo, poo, she is not going to die, lad. Tell me all about it, said the doctor, in an encouraging tone. She has had so much grief and care and anxiety, sir. Is there any such malady as a broken heart? Broken heart? Poo, poo, no, my child, no, never heard of such a thing in thirty years' medical experience. Even that story of a porter who broke his heart trying to lift a ton of stone is all a fiction. No such a disease as a broken heart. But tell me about your mother. It is of her that I am talking. She has had so much trouble in her life, and now I think she is sinking under it. She has been failing for weeks, and last night, while washing the tea cups, she fainted away from the table. Heaven help us, that looks badly, said the doctor. Oh, does it, does it, sir? She said it was nothing much. Oh, doctor, don't say she will die, don't. If she were to die, if mother were to die, I'd give right up. I never should do a bit of good in the world, for she is all the motive I have in this life. To study hard, to work hard, and make her comfortable and happy, so as to make up to her for all she has suffered, is my greatest wish and endeavor. Oh, don't say mother will die, it would ruin me, cried Travers. My dear boy, I don't say anything of the sort. I say, judging from your account, that her health must be attended to immediately. And true, I have retired from practice. But I will go and see your mother, Travers. Oh, sir, if you only would, I came to ask you to do that very thing. I should not have presumed to ask such a favour for any cause but this of my dear mother's life and health, and you will go to see her? Willingly and without delay, Travers, said the good man, rising immediately, and hurrying into and adjoining chamber. Order the gig while I dress, Travers, and I will take you back with me, he added, as he closed the chamber door behind him. By the time Travers had gone down, given the necessary orders and returned to the library, the doctor emerged from his chamber, buttoned up his gray frockcoat, and booted, gloved, and capped for the ride. They went down together, entered the gig, and drove rapidly down the Willow Avenue, slowly through the iron gate, and through the dark thicket, and down the wooded hill to the high road, and then as fast as a sorrel mare could trot toward town. In fifteen minutes the doctor pulled up his gig at the right-hand side of the road before the cottage gate. They entered the cottage, Travers going first in to announce the doctor. They found Mrs. Rock, as usual, seated in her low chair by the little fire, bending over her needlework. She looked up with surprise as they came in. Mother, this is Doctor Day, come to see you, said Travers. She arose from her chair, and raised those soft and timid dark gray eyes to the stranger's face, where they met that sweet, intense smile that seemed to encourage while it shone upon her. We have never met before, Mrs. Rock, but we both feel too much interest in this good lead here to meet as strangers now, said the doctor, extending his hand. Travers gives me every day fresh cause to be grateful to use her, for kindness that we can never, never repay, said Mara Rock, pressing that bountiful hand, and then placing a chair, which the doctor took. Travers seated himself at a little distance, and as the doctor conversed with, and covertly examined his mother's face, he watched the doctor's countenance as if life and death hung upon the character of its expression. But while they talked, not one word was set upon the subject of sickness or medicine. They talked of Travers. The doctor assured his mother that her boy was of such fine talent, character, and promise, and that he had already made such rapid progress in his classical and mathematical studies, that he ought immediately to enter upon a course of reading for one of the learned professions. The mother turned a smile full of love, pride, and sorrow upon the fine intellectual face of her boy, and said, You are like the angel in Cole's picture of life. You point the youth to the far-up temple of fame, and leave him there to get as he can? Not at all, madam. Let us see, Travers, you are now going on eighteen years of age. If you had your choice, which of the learned professions would you prefer for yourself? Law, physics, or divinity? The boy looked up and smiled, then dropped his head, and seemed to reflect. Perhaps you have never thought upon the subject, while you must take time, so as to be firm in your decision when you have once decided, said the doctor. Oh, sir, I have thought of it long, and my choice has been long and firmly decided, where I only free to follow it. Speak, lad, what is your choice? Why, don't you know, sir? Can't you guess? Why, your own profession, of course, sir. Certainly, sir, I could not think of any other, exclaimed the boy, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. That's my own lad, exclaimed the doctor enthusiastically, seizing the boy's hand with one of his, and clapping the other down upon his palm. For if the doctor had an admiration in the world, it was for his own profession. That's my own lad, my profession, the healing art. Why, it is the only profession worthy the study of an immortal being. Law sets people by the ears together. Divinity should never be considered as a profession. It is a divine mission. Physic. Physic, my boy, the healing art. That's the profession for you, and I am very glad to hear you declare for it, too. For now, the way is perfectly clear. Both mother and son looked up in surprise. Yes, the way is perfectly clear. Nothing is easier. Trevor shall come and read medicine in my office. I shall be glad to have the lad there. It will amuse me to give him instruction occasionally. I have a positive mania for teaching. And for doing good. Oh, sir, how have we deserved this kindness at your hands? And how shall we ever, ever repay it? cried Mrs. Rock in a broken voice, while the tears filled her gentle eyes. Oh, poo-poo! A mere nothing, ma'am. A mere nothing for me to do. Whatever it may prove to him. It is very hard indeed, if I am to be crushed under a cartload of thanks for doing something for a boy I like, when it does not cost me a cent of money or a breath of effort. Oh, sir, your generous refusal of our thanks does but deepen our obligation, said Mara, still weeping. Now, my dear madam, will you persist in making me confess that it is all selfishness on my part? I like the boy, I tell you. I shall like his bright, cheerful face in my office. I can make him very useful to me, also. Oh, sir, if you can and will only make him useful to you. Why, to be sure I can and will. He can act as my clerk, keep my accounts, write my letters, drive out with me, and sit in the rig while I go in to visit my patience. For, though I have pretty much retired from practice, still, still you visit and prescribe for the sick poor, gratis, added Mara, feelingly. Poo-poo! Habit, ma'am, habit, ruling passion strong as death, etc. I can't for the life of me keep from giving people bread-pills. And now, by the way, I must be off to see some of my patience in Stoughton. Traverse, my lad, my young medical assistant, I mean, are you willing to go with me? Oh, sir, said the boy, and hear his voice broke down with emotion. Come along, then left the doctor. You shall drive with me into the village as a commencement. Traverse got his hat while the doctor held out his hand to Mrs. Rock, who, with her eyes full of tears, and her voice faltering with emotion, began again to thank him. When he good-humoredly interrupted her by saying, Now, my good little woman, do pray hush. I'm a selfish fellow, as you'll see. I do nothing but what pleases my own self, and makes me happy. Goodbye. God bless you, madam, he said, cordially shaking her hand. Come, Traverse, he added, hurriedly striding out of the door, and through the yard to the gate, before which the old green gig and sorrel mare were still waiting. Traverse, I brought you out again today, more especially to speak of your mother, and her state of health. Said Dr. Day very seriously, as they both took their seats in the gig and drove on toward the town. Traverse, your mother is in no immediate danger of death. In fact, she has no disease whatever. Oh, sir, you do not think her ill, then? I thought you did not, from the fact that you never felt her pulse or gave her a prescription. Exclamed Traverse delightedly, four in one thing the lad resembled his mother. He was sensitive and excitable, easily depressed, and easily exhilarated. Traverse, I said your mother is in no immediate danger of death, for that, in fact, she has no disease. But yet, Traverse, brace yourself up, for I am about to strike you a heavy blow. Traverse, Mara Rock is starving. Starving? Heaven of heavens, no, that is not so, it cannot be. My mother starving? Oh, horrible, horrible! But Dr., it cannot, cannot be. Why, we have two meals a day at our house, cried the boy, almost beside himself with agitation. Lad, there are other starvations besides a total lack of food. There are slow starvations and diverse ones. Mara Rock is slowly starving, and in every way, mind, soul, and body. Her body is slowly wasting from the want of proper nutriment. Her heart from the want of human sympathy. Her mind from the need of social intercourse. Her whole manner of life must be changed if she is to live at all. Oh, sir, I understand you now. I feel, I feel that you speak the very truth. Something must be done. I must do something. What shall it be? Oh, advise me, sir. I must reflect a little, Traverse, said the doctor, thoughtfully, as he drove along, with very slack reins. And oh, how thoughtless of me! I forgot, indeed I did, sir, when I so gladly accepted your offer, for me to read with you. I forgot that if I spent every day reading in your office, my mother would sadly miss the dollar and a half a week I make by doing odd jobs in town. But I did not forget it, boy, rest easy upon that score. And now let me reflect how we can best serve your good little mother, said the doctor. And he drove slowly and thoughtfully along for about twenty minutes before he spoke again when he said, Traverse, Monday is the first of the month. You shall set in with me then. Come to me therefore on Monday, and I think by that time I shall have thought upon some plan for your mother. In the meantime, you make as much money at jobs as you can, and also you must accept from me for her a bottle or so of port wine and a turkey or two. Tell her, if she demures, that it is the doctor's prescription. And that, for fear of accident, he always prefers to send his own physic. Oh, Dr. Day, if I could only thank you a right, cried Traverse. Poo-poo, nonsense, there is no time for it. Here we are at Spicer's grocery store, where I suppose you are again employed. Yes, we'll jump out then. You can still make half a day. Mind, remember on Monday next, December 1st, you enter my office as my medical student, and by that time I shall have some plan arranged for your mother. Goodbye, God bless you, lad, said the good doctor, as he drove off and left Traverse standing in the genial autumn sunshine, with his heart swelling and his eyes overflowing with excess of gratitude and happiness. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Hidden Hand This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, the Hidden Hand by E-D-E-N Southworth, Chapter 15, Cap's Country Capers. A willful elf and uncle's child, that half a pet and half a pest, was still reproved and eured caressed, yet never tamed, though never spoiled. Capitola at first was delighted and half incredulous at the great change in her fortunes, the spacious and comfortable mansion of which she found herself the little mistress, the high rank of the veteran officer who claimed her as his warden niece, the abundance, regularity, and respectability of her new life, the leisure, the privacy, the attendance of servants, were also different from anything to which she had previously been accustomed, that there were times when she doubted its reality and distrusted her own identity. Sometimes of a morning, after a very vivid dream of the alleys, cellars, and gutters, rag pickers, newsboys, and beggars of New York, she would open her eyes upon her own comfortable chamber, with its glowing fire and crimson curtains, and bright mirror crowning the walnut bureau between them. She would jump up and gaze wildly around, not remembering where she was or how she came thither. Sometimes suddenly, startled by an intense realization of the contrast between her past and her present life, she would mentally inquire, can this be really I, myself, and not another? I, the little houseless wanderer through the streets and alleys of New York, I, the little news girl in boys' clothes, I, the wretched little vagrant that was brought up before the recorder and was about to be sent to the house of refuge for juvenile delinquents, can this be I, Capitola, the little outcast of the city, now changed into Miss Black, the young lady, perhaps the heiress of a fine old country seat, calling a fine old military officer uncle, having a handsome income of pocket money settled upon me, having carriages and horses and servants to attend me. No, it can't be. It's just impossible. No, I see how it is. I'm crazy. That's what I am, crazy. For now I think of it, the last thing I remember of my former life was being brought before the recorder for wearing boys' clothes. Now I'm sure that it was upon that occasion that I went suddenly mad with trouble, and all the rest is a lunatics fancy. This fine old country seat, of which I vainly think myself the mistress, is just the pauper madhouse to which the magistrates have sent me. This fine old military officer, whom I call uncle, is the head doctor. The servants who come at my call are the keepers. There is no figure out of my past life and my present one except Herbert Grayson. But Pasha, he is not the nephew of his uncle. He is only my old comrade, Herbert Grayson, the sailor-lad, who comes here to the madhouse to see me, and out of compassion, humours all my fancies. I wonder how long they'll keep me here. Forever, I hope, until I'm cured, I'm sure. I hope they won't cure me. I vow I won't be cured. It's a great deal too pleasant to be mad, and I'll stay so. I'll keep on calling myself Miss Black, and this madhouse my country seat, and the head doctor my uncle, and the keeper's servants, until the end of time, so I will. Catch me coming to my senses, when it's so delightful to be mad. I'm too sharp for that. I didn't grow up and rag alley New York for nothing. So half in jest, and half in earnest, Capitola soliloquized upon her change of fortune. Her education was commenced, but progressed rather irregularly. Old Hurricane bought her books and maps, slates and copy books, set her lessons in grammar, geography, and history, and made her write copies, do sums, and read and recite lessons to him. Mrs. Condiment taught her the mysteries of cutting and basting, backstitching and felling, hemming and seeming. A pupil as sharp as Capitola soon mastered her tasks, and found herself each day with many hours of leisure, with which she did not know what to do. These hours were at first occupied with exploring the old house, with all its attics, cutties, cocklofs, and cellars, then in wandering through the old ornamental grounds, that were even in winter, and in total neglect, beautiful with their wild growth of evergreens. Thence she extended her researches into the wild and picturesque country around. She was never weary of admiring the great forest that climbed the heights of the mountains behind their house. The great bleak precipices of gray rock seemed through the leafless branches of the trees. The rugged falling ground that lay before the house and between it and the river, and the river itself with its rushing stream and raging rapids. Capitola had become a skillful as she had first been a fearless rider, but her rides were confined to the domain between the mountain range and the river. She was forbidden to forward the one or climb the other. Perhaps if such a prohibition had never been made, Capitola would never have thought of doing the one or the other. But we all know the diabolical fascination there is in forbidden pleasures for young human nature. And no sooner had Cap been commanded, if she valued her safety not to cross the water or climb the precipice, than as a natural consequence she began to wonder what was in the valley behind the mountain and what might be in the woods across the river. And she longed above all things to explore and find out for herself. She would eagerly have done so, notwithstanding the prohibition, but Wool, who always attended her rides, was sadly in the way. If she could only get rid of Wool, she resolved to go upon a limited exploring expedition. One day a golden opportunity occurred. It was a day of unusual beauty, when autumn seemed to be smiling upon the earth, with her brightest smiles before passing away. In a word it was Indian summer. The beauty of the weather had tempted old hurricane to ride to the county seat on particular business, connected with his ward herself. Capitola left alone, amused herself with her tasks, until the afternoon. Then, calling a boy, she ordered him to saddle her horse and bring him around. My dear, what do you want with your horse? There is no one to attend you. Wool has gone with his master, said Mrs. Condiment, as she met Capitola in the hall, habited for her ride. I know that, but I cannot be mewed up here in the old house and deprived of my afternoon ride, exclaimed Capitola, decidedly. But, my dear, you must never think of riding out alone, exclaimed the dismayed Mrs. Condiment. Indeed I shall, though, and glad of the opportunity, added Cap, mentally. But, my dear love, it is improper, imprudent, dangerous. Why so, asked Cap? Good gracious upon every account! Suppose you were to meet with Ruffians. Suppose, O heaven, suppose you were to meet with Black Donald. Mrs. Condiment, once for all, do tell me who this terrible Black Donald is. Is he the evil one himself, or the man in the iron mask, or the individual that struck Billy Patterson, or who is he? Who is Black Donald? Good gracious child, you ask me who is Black Donald? Yes, who is he? Where is he? What is he? That every cheek turns pale at the mention of his name, asked Capitola. Black Donald, O my child, may you never know more of Black Donald than I can tell you. Black Donald is the chief of a band of ruthless desperados that infest these mountain roads, robbing male coaches, stealing negroes, breaking into houses, and committing every sort of depredation. Their hands are red with murder, and their souls black with darker crimes. Darker crimes than murder, ejaculated Capitola? Yes, child, yes, there are darker crimes. Only last winter he and three of his gang broke into a solitary house, where there was a lone woman and her daughter. And it is not a story for you to hear, but if the people had caught Black Donald then they would have burned him at the stake. His life is forfeit by a hundred crimes. He is an outlaw, and a heavy price is set upon his head. And no one can take him? No, my dear, at least no one has been able to do so yet. His very haunts are unknown, but are supposed to be in concealed mountain caverns. How I would like the glory of capturing Black Donald, said Capitola. You, child, you capture Black Donald? You are crazy. Oh, by strategy, I mean, not by force. Oh, how I should like to capture Black Donald. There's my horse, good-bye. And before Mrs. Condiment could raise another objection, Capitola ran out, sprang into her saddle, and was seen careering down the hill toward the river, as fast as her horse could fly. My lord, but the major will be hopping if he finds it out was good Mrs. Condiment's dismayed exclamation. Rejoicing in her freedom, Capitola galloped down to the water's edge, and then walked her horse up and down along the course of the stream, until she found a good fording-place. Then gathering up her riding-skirt and throwing it over the neck of her horse, she plunged boldly into the stream, and with the water splashing and foaming all around her, urged him onward till they crossed the river and climbed up the opposite bank. A bridal path lay before her, leading from the fording-place through a deep wood. That path attracted her, she followed it, charmed alike by the solitude of the wood, the novelty of the scene, and her own sense of freedom. But one thought was given to the story of Black Donald, and that was a reassuring one. If Black Donald is a male-rabber, then this little bridal path is far enough off his beat. And so saying, she gaily galloped along, singing as she went, following the narrow path up hill in Boundale through the wintry woods, drawn on by the attraction of the unknown, and deceiving herself by the continued repetition of one resolve, namely, when I get to the top of the next hill and seize what lies beyond, then I will turn back. She galloped on and on, on and on, on and on, until she had put several miles between herself and her home, until her horse began to exhibit signs of weariness, and the level rays of the setting sun were striking redly through the leafless branches of the trees. Cap drew rain at the top of a high-witted hill and looked about her. On her left hand, the sun was sinking like a ball of fire below the horizon. All around her everywhere were the wintry woods. Far away in the direction when she had come, she saw the tops of the mountains behind Hurricane Hall, looking like blue clouds against the southern horizon. The hall itself and the river below were out of sight. I wonder how far I am from home, said Capitola, uneasily. Somewhere between six and seven miles, I reckon. Dear me, I didn't mean to ride so far. I've got over a great deal of ground in these two hours. I shall not get back so soon, my horse is tired to death. It will take me three hours to reach Hurricane Hall. Good gracious, it will be pitch dark before I get there. No, thank heaven, there will be a moon. But won't there be a row, though? Wew, well I must turn about and lose no time. Come, Jip, get up, Jip, good horse, we're going home. And so saying, Capitola turned her horse's head and urged him into a gallop. She had gone on for about a mile, and it was growing dark, and her horse was again slackening his pace, when she thought she heard the sound of another horse's hoofs behind her. She drew rain and listened, and was sure of it. Now, without being the least of a coward, Capitola thought of the loneliness of the woods, the lateness of the hour, her own helplessness, and Black Donald, and thinking discretion the better part of iller, she urged her horse once more into a gallop for a few hundred yards, but the jaded beast soon broke into a trot and subsided into a walk that threatened soon to come to a standstill. The invisible pursuer gained on her. In vain she urged her steed with whip and voice, the poor beast would obey and trot for a few yards, and then fall into a walk. The thundering footfalls of the pursuing horse were close in the rear. Oh, Jip, is it possible that instead of my capturing Black Donald you were going to let Black Donald or somebody else catch me? exclaimed Capitola, and mocked to spare, as she urged her wearied steed. In vain the pursuing horseman was beside her, a strong hand was laid on her bridle, a mocking voice was whispering in her ear. Wither away so fast, pretty one. E-D-E-N Southworth. CHAPTER XVI. CAP'S FEARFUL ADVENTURE. WHO PASSES BY THIS ROAD SO LATE? COMPANION OF THE MAGELINE. WHO PASSES BY THIS ROAD SO LATE? SAY, O SAY. OLD FRENCH SONG. OF A NATURALLY STRONG CONSTITUTION AND ADVENTURIST DISPOSITION, AND ANEARED FROM INFINCY TO DANGER, Capitola possessed a high degree of courage, self-control, and presence of mind. At the touch of that ruthless hand, at the sound of that jibing voice, all her faculties instantly collected and concentrated themselves upon the emergency. As by a flash of lightning she saw every feature of her imminent danger, the loneliness of the woods, the lateness of the hour, the recklessness of her fearful companion, and her own weakness. In another instance her resolution was taken and her course determined. So when the stranger repeated his mocking question, wither away so fast, pretty one, she answered with animation. Oh, I am going home, and I'm so glad to have company, for indeed I was dreadfully afraid of riding alone through these woods to-night. Afraid? Pretty one, of what? Oh, of ghosts and witches, wild beasts, runaway negroes, and black Donald. Then you are not afraid of me. Lors, no indeed, I guess I ain't. Why should I be afraid of a respectable-looking gentleman like you, sir? And so you are going home? Where is your home, pretty one? On the other side of the river. But you need not keep calling me pretty one. It must be as tiresome to you to repeat it, as it is to me to hear it. What shall I call you then, my dear? You may call me Miss Black, or if you are friendly, you may call me Capitola. Capitola exclaimed the man, in a deep and changed voice, as he dropped her bridle. Yes, Capitola, what objection have you got to that? It is a pretty name, isn't it? But if you think it is too long and you feel very friendly, you may call me Cap. Well, then, my pretty Cap, where do you live across the river? asked the stranger, recovering his self-possession. Oh, at a rum-old place they call Hurricane Hall. With a rum-old military officer they called Old Hurricane, said Capitola, for the first time stealing a sidelong glance at her fearful companion. It was not Black Donald. That was the first conclusion to which she rashly jumped. He appeared to be a gentlemanly ruffian, about 40 years of age, well-dressed in a black riding-suit, black beaver hat drawn down close over his eyes, black hair and whiskers, heavy black eyebrows that met across his nose, drooping eyelashes, and eyes that looked out under the corners of the lids, altogether a sly, sinister, cruel face, a cross between a fox and a tiger. It warned Capitola to expect no mercy there. After the girl's last words, he seemed to have fallen into thought for a moment, and then again he spoke. Well, my pretty Cap, how long have you been living at Hurricane Hall? Ever since my guardian, Major Warfield, brought me from the city of New York, where I received my education. In the streets, she mentally added. Humpf! Why did you ride so fast, my pretty Cap? he asked, eyeing her from the corner of his eyes. Oh, sir, because I was afraid, as I told you before. Afraid of runaway negroes and wild beasts, and so on. But now, with a good gentleman like you, I don't feel afraid at all. And I'm very glad to be able to walk poor Jip, because he is tired, poor fellow. Yes, poor fellow, said the traveller, in a mocking tone. He is tired. Suppose you dismount and let him rest. Come, I'll get off too, and we will sit down here by the roadside, and have a friendly conversation. Capitola stole a glance at his face. Yes, notwithstanding his light tone, he was grimly in earnest. There was no mercy to be expected from that sly, sinister, cruel face. Come, my pretty Cap, what say you? I don't care if I do, she said, riding to the edge of the path, drawing rain, and looking down as if to examine the ground. Come, little beauty, must I help you off? asked the stranger. No, answered Capitola, with deliberate hesitation. No, this is not a good place to sit down and talk. It is all full of brambles. Very well. Shall we go a little further? Oh, yes. But I don't want to ride fast, because it will tire my horse. You shall go just as you please, my angel, said the traveller. I wonder whether this wretch thinks me very simple, or very depraved. He must come to one or the other conclusion, thought Capitola. They rode on very slowly for a mile further, and then, having arrived at an open glade, the stranger drew rain and said, Come, pretty lark, hop down. Here's a nice place to sit and rest. Very well. Come help me off, said Capitola, pulling her horse. Then, as by sudden impulse, she exclaimed, I don't like this place either. It's right on top of the hill, so windy, and just see how rocky the ground is. No, I'll not sit and rest here, and that, I tell you. I'm afraid you are trifling with me, my pretty bird. Take care. I'll not be trifled with, said the man. I don't know what you mean by trifling with you any more than the dead, but I'll not sit down there on those sharp rocks, and so I tell you. If you will be civil and ride along with me until we get to the foot of the hill, I know a nice place where we can sit down and have a good talk, and I will tell you all my travels, and you shall tell me all yours. Exactly, and where is that nice place? Why in the valley at the foot of the hill? Come, come on, then. Slowly, slowly, said Capitola, I won't tire my horse. They rode over the hill, down the gradual descent, and on toward the center of the valley. They were now within a quarter of the mile of the river, on the opposite side of which was Hurricane Hall, and safety. The stranger drew rain, saying, Come, my cuckoo, here we are at the bottom of the valley, now or never. Oh, now, of course. You see, I keep my promise, answered Capitola, pulling up her horse. The man sprang from his saddle, and came to her side. Please, be careful now. Don't let my riding skirt get hung up in the stirrup, said Capitola, cautiously disengaging her drapery, rising in the saddle, and giving the stranger her hand. In the act of jumping, she suddenly stopped and looked down, exclaiming, Good gracious, how very damp the ground is here, in the bottom of the valley. More objections, I suppose, my pretty one, but they won't serve you any longer. I am bent upon having a cozy chat with you upon that very turf, said the stranger, pointing to a little cleared space among the trees beside the path. Now, don't be cross. Just see how damp it is there. It would spoil my riding dress, and give me my death of cold. Hump, said the stranger, looking at her with a sly, grim, cruel resolve. I'll tell you what it is, said Cap. I'm not witty or amusing, nor will it pay to sit out in the night air to hear me talk. But since you wish it, and since you are so good as to guard me through those woods, and since I promised why, damp as it is, I will even get off and talk with you. That's my birdling. But hold on a minute. Is there nothing you can get to put there for me to sit on? No stump, nor dry stone? No, my dear, I don't see any. Could you turn down your hat and let me sit on that? Ha, ha, ha! While your weight would crush it as flat as a flounder. Oh, I know now, exclaimed Capitola, with sudden delight. You just spread your saddlecloth down there, and that will make a beautiful seat, and I'll sit and talk with you so nicely. Only you must not want me to stay long, because if I don't get home soon I shall catch a scolding. You shall neither catch a scolding nor a cold on my account, pretty one, said the man, going to his horse to get the saddlecloth. Oh, don't take off the saddle. It will detain you too long, said Cap, impatiently. My pretty Cap, I cannot get the cloth without taking it off, said the man, beginning to unbuckle the girth. Oh, yes you can. You can draw it from under her, persisted Cap. Impossible, my angel, said the man, lifting off the saddle from his horse, and laying it carefully by the roadside. Then he took off the gay, crimson saddlecloth, and carried it into the little clearing, and began carefully to spread it down. Now is Cap's time. Her horse had recovered from his fatigue. The stranger's horse was in the path before her. While the man's back was turned, she raised her riding whip, and, with a shout, gave the front horse a sharp lash that sent him galloping furiously ahead. Then, instantaneously putting whip to her own horse, she started into a run. Hearing the shout, the lash and the starting of the horses, the baffled villain turned, and saw that his game was lost. He had been outwitted by a child. He gnashed his teeth, and shook his fist in rage. Turning as she wheeled out of sight, Capitola, I am sorry to say, put her thumb to the side of her nose, and rolled her fingers into a semi-circle, in a gesture more expressive than elegant.