"Friend wilt thou give me shelter here?
The stranger meekly saith
My life is hunted! evil men
Are following on my path."
Marah Rocke sat by her lonely fireside.
The cottage was not changed in any respect since the day upon which we
first of all found her there. There was the same bright, little wood
fire; the same clean hearth and the identical faded carpet on the
floor. There was the dresser with its glistening crockery ware on the
right, and the shelves with Traverse's old school books on the left of
the fireplace.
The widow herself had changed in nothing except that her clean black
dress was threadbare and rusty, and her patient face whiter and thinner
than before.
And now there was no eager restlessness; no frequent listening and
looking toward the door. Alas! she could not now expect to hear her
boy's light and springing step and cheerful voice as he hurried home at
eventide from his daily work. Traverse was far away at St. Louis
undergoing the cares and trials of a friendless young physician trying
to get into practice. Six months had passed since he took leave of her,
and there was as yet no hope of his returning even to pay a visit.
So Marah sat very still and sad, bending over her needlework without
ever turning her head in the direction of the door. True, he wrote to
her every week. No Wednesday ever passed without bringing her a letter
written in a strong, buoyant and encouraging strain. Still she missed
Traverse very sadly. It was dreary to rise up in the empty house every
morning; dreary to sit down to her solitary meals, and drearier still
to go to bed in her lonely room without having received her boy's kiss
and heard his cheerful good-night. And it was her custom every night to
read over Traverse's last letter before retiring to bed.
It was getting on toward ten o'clock when she folded up her work and
put it away and drew her boy's latest epistle from her bosom to read.
It ran as follows: St. Louis, Dec. 1st, 184--.
My dearest Mother--I am very glad to hear that you continue in good
health, and that you do not work too hard, or miss me too sadly. It
is the greatest comfort of my life to hear good news of you, sweet
mother. I count the days from one letter to another, and read every
last letter over daily until I get a new one. You insist upon my
telling you how I am getting on, and whether I am out of money. I
am doing quite well, ma'am, and have some funds left! I have quite
a considerable practice. It is true that my professional services
are in request only among the very poor, who pay me with their
thanks and good wishes. But I am very glad to be able to pay off a
small part of the great debt of gratitude I owe to the benevolent
of this world by doing all that I can in my turn for the needy. And
even if I had never myself been the object of a good man's
benevolence, I should still have desired to serve the indigent;
"for whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord," and I "like the
security." Therefore, sweet mother of mine, be at ease; for I am
getting on swimmingly--with one exception. Still I do not hear from
our Clara! Six months have now passed, during which, despite of her
seeming silence, I have written to her every week; but not one
letter or message have I received from her in return! And now you
tell me also that you have not received a single letter from her
either! I know not what to think. Anxiety upon her account is my
one sole trouble! Not that I wrong the dear girl by one instant's
doubt of her constancy--no! my soul upon her truth! if I could do
that, I should be most unworthy of her love! No, mother, you and I
know that Clara is true! But ah! we do not know to what sufferings
she may be subjected by Le Noir, who I firmly believe has
intercepted all our letters. Mother, I am about to ask a great,
perhaps an unreasonable, favor of you! It is to go down into the
neighborhood of the Hidden House and make inquiries and try to find
out Clara's real condition. If it be possible, put yourself into
communication with her, and tell her that I judge her heart by my
own, and have the firmest faith in her constancy, even though I
have written to her every week for six months without ever having
received an answer. I feel that I am putting you to expense and
trouble, but my great anxiety about Clara, which I am sure you
share, must be my excuse. I kiss your dear and honored hands, and
remain ever your loving son and faithful servant.