CHAPTER 35 The hidden house. The very stains and fractures on the wall, assuming features solemn and terrific, hinted some tragedy of that old hall, locked up in hieroglyphic, prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread, but to one gloomy window pointing mostly. The wall some secret inspiration said, that chamber is the ghostly hood. The hidden house was a large irregular edifice of dark red sandstone, with its walls covered closely with the clinging ivy, that had been clipped away only from a few of the doors and windows, and the roof overshadowed by the top branches of gigantic oaks and elms that clustered around and nearly concealed the building. It might have been a long forsaken house, for any sign of human habitation that was to be seen about it. All was silent, solitary, and gloomy. As Capitola drew up her horse to gaze upon its somber walls, she wondered which was the window at which the spectral light and ghostly face had been seen. She soon believed that she had found it. At the highest point of the building, immediately under the sharp angle of the roof, and the gable and nearest to view, was a solitary window. The ivy that clung tightly to the stone, covering every portion of the wall at this end, was clipped away from that high-placed, dark and lonely window by which Capitola's eyes were strangely fascinated. While thus she gazed in wonder, interest and curiosity, though without the least degree of superstitious dread, a vision flashed upon her sight that sent the blood from her ruddy cheek to her brave heart, and shook the foundations of her unbelief. For while she gazed, suddenly that dark window was illumined by a strange unearthly light that streamed forth into the gloomy evening air, and touched with blue flame the quivering leaves of every tree in its brilliant line. In the midst of this lighted window appeared a white female face, wild with woe, and then the face suddenly vanished, and the light was swallowed up in darkness. Capitola remained transfixed. Great Heaven, she thought, can these things really be? Have the ghostly traditions of this world truth in them elast? When I heard this story of the haunted window, I thought someone had surely imagined or invented it. Now I have seen for myself, but if I were to tell what I have seen, not one if a hundred would believe me. While these startling thoughts disturbed her usually well-balanced mind, a vivid flash of lightning, accompanied by a tremendous peel of thunder, and a heavy fall of rain, roused her into renewed activity. Jip, my boy, the storm is upon us sure enough. We shall catch it all around, get well-drowned, beaten and buffeted here, and well abused when we get home. Meanwhile, Jip, which is the worst, the full fury of the tempest, or the mysterious terrors of the haunted house. Another blinding flash of lightning, a stunning crash of thunder, a flood of rain, and tornado of wind, decided her. We'll take the haunted house, Jip, my friend, that spectral lady of the lighted window, looked rather in sorrow than in anger, and who knows but the ghosts may be hospitable. So Jip Dobbins said Capitola, and urging her horse with one hand, and holding on her cap with the other, she went on against wind and rain until she reached the front of the old house. Not a creature was to be seen. Every door and window was closely shut. Dismounting, Capitola led her horse under the shelter of a thickly-leaved oak-tree, secured him, and then holding up her saturated skirt with one hand, and holding on her cap with the other, she went up some moldering stone steps to an old stone portico, and seizing the heavy iron knocker of a great black oak double door, she knocked loudly enough to awaken all the mountain echoes. She waited a few minutes for an answer, but receiving none, she knocked again, more loudly than before. Still there was no reply. And growing impatient, she seized the knocker with both hands, and exerting all her strength made the welkin ring again. This brought a response. As the door was unlocked and angrily jerked open by a short, squarely-formed, beetle-browed, stern-looking woman, clothed in a black stuff gown, and having a stiff muslin cap upon her head. Who are you? What do you want here? Harshly demanded this woman, whom Capitola instinctively recognized as dorky knight, the morose housekeeper of the hidden house. Who am I? What do I want? Olds Nick fly away with you. It's plain enough to be seen who I am and what I want. I am a young woman caught out in the storm, and I want shelter, said Cap, indignantly. And her words were endorsed by a terrific burst of the tempest and lightning, thunder, wind, and rain. Come in, then, and when you ask favours learn to keep a civil tongue in your head, said the woman sternly, taking the guest by the hand, and pulling her in, and shutting and locking the door. Favours, plague on you for a bearish. I asked no favour. Every storm-beaten traveller has a right to shelter under the first roof that offers, and none but a curmudgeon would think of calling it a favour. And as for keeping a civil tongue in my head, I'll do it when you set me the examples, said Cap. Who are you, again, demanded the woman? Oh, I see you are no Arabian in your notions of hospitality. Those pagans entertain a guest without asking him a single question, and though he were their bitterest foe, they considered him while he rests beneath their tent, sacred from intrusion. That's because they were pagans, said Dorky, but as I am a Christian, I'd thank you to let me know who it is that I have received under this roof. My name, said our heroine, impatiently, is Capitola Black. I live with my uncle, Major Warfield, at Hurricane Hall. And now I should thank your ladieship to send someone to put away my horse, while you accommodate me with dry clothes. While our saucy little heroine spoke the whole aspect of the dark proud woman changed. Capitola, Capitola, she muttered, gazing earnestly upon the face of the unwelcome guest. Yes, Capitola, that is my name. You never heard anything against it, did you? For all answered the woman seized her hand, and while the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, and the wind and rain beat down, she drew her the whole length of the hall before a back window that overlooked the neglected garden, and regardless of the electric fluid that incessantly blazed upon them, she held her there and scrutinized her features. Well, I like this. Upon my word I do, said Cap, composedly. Without replying, the strange woman seized her right hand, forcibly opened it, gazed upon the palm, and then, flinging it back with a shudder, exclaimed, Capitola, what brought you under this roof? Away, be gone! Mount your horse and fly while there is yet time. What? Exposed myself again to the storm? I won't, and that's flat, said Cap. Girl, girl, there are worse dangers in the world than any to be feared from thunder, lightning, rain, or wind. Very well, then, when I meet them it will be time enough to deal with them. Meanwhile the stormy night and my soaked clothing are very palpable evils, and as I see no good end to be gained by my long enduring them, I will just beg you to stop soothsaying, as I have had enough of that from another old witch, and be as good as to permit me to change my clothes. It is madness, you shall not stay here, cried the woman, in a harsh voice, and I tell you I will, you are not the head of the family, and I do not intend to be turned out by you. While she spoke, a servant crossed the hall, and the woman, whisking Capitola around until her back was turned, and her face concealed, went to speak to the newcomer. When will your master be here? Capitola heard her inquire. Not to-night he saw the storm rising, and did not wish to expose himself. He sent me on to say that he would not be here until morning. I was caught, as you see. I am dripping wet, replied the man. Go, change your clothes at once, then, Davy. Who is that stranger, asked the man, pointing to Capitola. Some young woman of the neighborhood, who has been caught out in the tempest, but you had better go and change your clothes than to stand here gasping, said the woman harshly. I say, said the man, the young woman is a god sent to Miss Clara. Nobody has been to see her yet. Nobody ever visits this house unless they are driven to it. I don't wonder the Colonel and her young master pass as much as ten months in the year away from home, spending all the summer at the watering places, and all the winter in New York or Washington. Hold your tongue, what right have you to complain? You always attend them in their travels. True, but you see for this last season they have both been staying here, old master to watch the heiress, young master to court her. And as I have no interest in that game, I find the time hangs heavy on my hands, complained the man. It will hang heavier if you take a long fit of illness by standing in wet clothes, muttered the woman. Why so at twill, Missus? So here goes, assented the man, hurrying across the hall, and passing out through the door opposite that by which she entered. Dorka's returned to her guest. Iing her closely for a while, she at length inquired. Capitola, how long have you lived at Hurricane Hall? So long, replied Cap, that you must have heard of me. I, at least, have often heard of Mother Dorky Knight. And heard no good of her. Well, no, to be candid with you, I never did, said Cap. And much harm of her, continued the woman, keeping her stern black eyes fixed upon those of her guest. Well, yes, since you ask me, I have heard pretty considerable harm, answered Cap. Nothing daunted. Where did you live before you came to Hurricane Hall, asked Dorka's. Where I learned to fear God, to speak the truth, and to shame the devil, replied Cap. And to force yourself into people's houses against their will. There you are again. I tell you that when I learn from the head of this household that I am unwelcome, then I will retreat, and not until then. And now I demand to be presented to the Master. To Colonel Lenore? Yes. I cannot curse you with the curse of a granted prayer. Colonel Lenore is away. Why do you talk so strangely, inquired Capitola? It is my whim, perhaps my head is light. I should think it was, excessively so. Well, as the Master of the house is away, be good enough to present me to the Mistress. What Mistress? There is no Mistress here, replied Dorka's, looking around in strange trepidation. I mean the young lady, Colonel Lenore's word. In lieu of any other lady, she, I suppose, may be considered the Mistress of the house. Humpf! Well, young girl, as you are fully resolved to stand your ground, I suppose there is nothing to do but put up with you, said Dorka's. And put up my horse, added Cap. He shall be taken care of, but mind you must depart early in the morning, said Dorka's, sternly. Once more, and for the last, Mother Cerberus, I assure you I do not acknowledge your authority to dismiss me, retorted Capitola. So show me to the presence of your Mistress. Perverse, like all the rest, follow me, said the housekeeper, leading the way from the hall toward a back parlor. End of CHAPTER XXV. There is a light around her brow, a holiness in those dark eyes, that show, though wandering earthward now, her spirit's home is in the skies. More. Pushing open the door, Dorka's night exclaimed, Here is a young lady, Miss Black, from Hurricane Hall, come to see you, Miss Day. And having made this announcement, the woman retired and shut the door behind her. And Capitola found herself in a large, dark, gloomy, wainscoted room, whose tall narrow windows afforded but little light, and whose immense fireplace and blacken furniture seemed to belong to a past century. The only occupant of the somber apartment was a young girl, seated in pensive thought beside the central table. She was clothed in deep mourning, which only served to throw into fairer relief the beauty of her pearly skin, golden hair, and violet eyes. The vision of her mourning robes and melancholy beauty so deeply impressed Capitola that almost for the first time in her life she hesitated from a feeling of diffidence, and sedgently. Indeed, I fear that this is an unwarranted intrusion on my part, Miss Day. You are very welcome, replied the sweetest voice Capitola had ever heard, as the young girl arose in advance to meet her. But you have been exposed to the storm. Please come into my room and change your clothes, continued the hostess, as she took Cap's hand, and led her into an adjoining room. The storm was still raging, but these apartments, being in the central portion of the strong old house, were but little exposed to the sight or sound of its fury. There was a lamp burning upon the mantelpiece, by the light of which the young girl furnished her visitor with dry clothing, and assisted her to change, saying as she did so. I think we are about the same size, and that my clothes will fit you. But I will not offer you my mourning, have elements. You shall have this lilac silk. I am very sorry to see you in mourning, said Capitola, earnestly. It is for my father, replied Clara, very softly. As they spoke the eyes of the two young girls met, they were both good physionomists and intuitive judges of character. Consequently, in the full meeting of their eyes they read, understood, and appreciated each other. The pure grave and gentle expression of Clara's countenance touched the heart of Capitola. The bright, frank, honest face of Cap recommended her to Clara. The very opposite traits of their equally truthful characters attracted them to each other. Clara conducted her guest back into the wainscoted parlor, where a cheerful fire had been kindled to correct the dampness of the air, and here they sat down, unmindful of the storm that came much subdued through the thickness of the walls. And as young creatures, however tried and sorrowful will do, they entered into a friendly chat. And before an hour had passed, Capitola thought herself well repaid for her sufferings from the storm and the rebuff, and having formed the acquaintance of Clara Day. She resolved, let old hurricane rage as he might, henceforth she would be a frequent visitor to the hidden house. And Clara, for her part, felt that in Capitola she had found a frank, spirited, faithful neighbor who might become an estimable friend. While they were thus growing into each other's favor, the door opened and admitted a gentleman of tall and thin figure and white and emaciated face, shaded by a luxuriant growth of glossy black hair and beard. He could not have been more than 26, but prematurely broken by vice, he seemed forty years of age. He advanced bowing toward the young woman. As Capitola's eyes fell upon the newcomer, it required all her presence of mind and powers of self-control to prevent her from staring or otherwise betraying herself. For in this stranger she recognized the very man who had stopped her upon her night ride. She did, however, succeed in banishing from her face every expression of consciousness. And when Miss Day courtesely presented him to her guest, saying merely, My cousin, Mr. Cravenly-Nor, Miss Black, Capitola arose and curtsied as composedly as if she had never saw eyes upon his face before. He on his part evidently remembered her, and sent one stealthy, keen, and scrutinizing glance into her face. But finding that imperturbable he bowed with stately politeness, and seemed satisfied that she had not identified him as her assailant. Cravenly-Nor drew his chair to the fire, seated himself, and entered into an easy conversation with Clara and her guest. Whenever he addressed Clara, there was a deference and tenderness in his tone and glance that seemed very displeasing to the fair girl, who received all these delicate attentions with coldness and reserve. These things did not escape the notice of Capitola, who mentally concluded that Cravenly-Nor was a lover of Clara Day, but a most unacceptable lover. When supper was announced, it was evidently hailed by Clara as a great relief, and after the meal was over she arose and excused herself to her cousin by saying that her guest, Miss Black, had been exposed to the storm, and was doubtless very much fatigued, and that she would show her to her chamber. Then taking a night lamp, she invited Capitola to come and conducted her to an old-fashioned upper chamber, where a cheerful fire was burning on the hearth. Here the young girl sat down before the fire and improved their acquaintance by an hour's conversation, after which Clara arose and saying, I sleep immediately below your room, Miss Black. If you should want anything, wrap on the floor, and I shall hear you and get up. She wished her guest a good night's rest and retired from the room. Cap was disinclined to sleep. A strange superstitious feeling which she could neither understand nor throw off had fallen upon her spirits. She took the night lamp in her hand and got up to examine her chamber. It was a large, dark, oak-paneled room, with a dark carpet on the floor, and dark green curtains on the windows and the bedstead. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of a most beautiful black-haired and black-eyed girl of about fourteen years of age, but upon whose infantile brow fell the shadow of some fearful woe. There was something awful in the despair on that face so young that bound the gazer in an irresistible and most painful spell. And Capitola remained standing before it transfixed, until the striking of the hall clock aroused her from her enchantment. Wondering who the young creature could have been, what had been her history, and above all, what had been the nature of that fearful woe that darkened like a curse her angel brow, Capitola turned almost sorrowfully away, and began to prepare for bed. She undressed, put on the delicate night-clothes Clara had provided for her use, said her evening prayers, looked under the bed, a precaution taken ever since the night upon which she had discovered the burglars, and, finding all right, she blew out her candle and lay down. She could not sleep. Many persons of nervous or mercurial temperaments cannot do so the first night in a strange bed. Cap was very mercurial, and the bed-indrome in which she lay were very strange. For the first time since she had had a home to call her own, she was unexpectedly staying all night, away from her friends, and without there having any knowledge of her whereabouts. She was conjecturing, half in fear and half in fun, how old Hurricane was taking her escapade, and what he would say to her in the morning. She was wondering to find herself in such an unforeseen position as that of a night-guest in the mysterious hidden house, wondering whether this was the guest-chamber in which the ghost appeared to the officer, and these were the very curtains that the pale lady drew at night. While her thoughts were thus running over the whole range of circumstances around her singular position, sleep overtook Capitola, and speculation was lost in brighter visions. How long she had slept and dreamed she did not know when something gently awakened her.   Paralyzed with wonder, Capitola watched this figure as it glided about the chamber. The apparition approached the dressing table, seemed to take something thence, and then gliding toward the bed, to Capitola's inexpressible horror, drew back the curtains, and bent down and gazed upon her. Capitola had no power to scream, to move or to avert her gaze from those awful eyes that met her own, until at length, as the spectral head bent lower, she felt the pressure of a pair of icy lips upon her brow, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the vision had departed, and the room was dark and quiet. There was no more sleep for Capitola. She heard the clock strike four, and was pleased to find that it was so near day. Still the time seemed very long to her, who lay there wondering, conjecturing, and speculating on the strange adventure of the night. When the sun arose, she left her restless bed, bathed her excited head, and proceeded to dress herself. When she had finished her toilet, with the exception of putting on her trinkets, she suddenly missed a ring that she prized more than she did all her possessions put together. It was a plain gold band, bearing the inscription, Capitola, Eugene, and which she had been enjoined by her old nurse, never depart from but with life. She had, in her days of destitution, suffered the extremes of cold and hunger, had been upon the very brink of death, from starvation or freezing, but without ever dreaming of sacrificing her ring. And now for the first time it was missing. While she was still looking anxiously for the lost jewel, the door opened, and Dorcas Knight entered the room, bearing on her arm Capitola's riding-dress, which had been well dried and ironed. Miss Capitola, here's your habit. You had better put it on it once, as I have ordered a breakfast and hour sooner than usual, so that you may have an early start. Upon my word, you were very anxious to get rid of me, but not more so than I am to depart, said Capitola, still pursuing her search. Your friends who do not know where you are must be very uneasy about you. But what are you looking for? A ring, a plain gold ring, with my name and that of another inscribed on it, and which I would not lose for the world. I hung it on a pin in this pin-cushion last night before I went to bed. I would swear I did, and now it is missing, answered Cap, still pursuing her search. If you lost it in this room it will certainly be found, said Dorcas Knight, putting down the habit and helping in the search. I am not so sure of that. There was someone in my room last night. Someone in your room? exclaimed Dorcas in this May. Yes, a dark-haired woman, all dressed in white. Dorcas Knight gave two or three angry grunts, and then harshly exclaimed, nonsense, woman indeed, there is no such woman about the house. There are no females here except Miss Day, myself and you, not even a waiting-mate or cook. Well, said Cap, if it was not a woman it was a ghost, for I was wide awake, and I saw it with my own eyes. Fudge, you've heard that foolish story of the haunted room, and you have dreamed the whole thing. I tell you I didn't, I saw it, don't I know? I say you dreamed it, there is no such living woman here, and as for a ghost that is all folly. And I must beg, Miss Black, that you will not distress Miss Day by telling her the strange dream of yours. She has never heard the ridiculous story of the haunted room, and as she lives here in solitude I would not like her to hear of it. Oh, I will say nothing to disquiet Miss Day, but it was no dream. It was real, if there is any reality in this world. There was no more said. They continued to look for the ring, but in vain. Dorcas Knight, however, assured her guest that it should be found and returned, and that breakfast waited. Whereupon Capitola went down to the parlor, where she found Clara awaiting her presence, to give her a kindly greeting. Mr. Lenore never gets up until very late, and so we do not wait for him, said Dorcas Knight, as she took her seat at the head of the table, and signed to the young girls to gather around it. After breakfast Capitola, promising to come again soon, and inviting Clara to return her visit, took leave of her entertainers and set out for home. Thank heaven, I have got her off in time, and safety, muttered Dorcas Knight in triumph. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 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 37 Cap's Return Must I give way in Rome for your rash color? Shall I be frightened when a madman stares?  It happened that about sunrise that morning, Wola woke in the cellar, and remembered that on the night previous his master had commanded him to sail a forth in the storm, and seek his young mistress, and had forbidden him, on pain of broken bones, to return without bringing her safe. Therefore what did the honest soul do but steal out to the stables, saddle and mount a horse, and ride back to the house, just as Mrs. Condiment had come out into the poultry yard to get eggs for breakfast? Mrs. Compliment, ma'am, I's been out all night in search of Miss Caterpillar without finding of her. Has she come back, ma'am? Lord, no indeed, wool, I'm very anxious, and the major is taking on dreadful, but I hope she is safe in some house. But poor wool, you must have had a dreadful time out all night in the storm looking for her. Awful, Mrs. Compliment, ma'am, awful, said wool.  I daren't, Mrs. Compliment. Old Mars forbid me to show my face to him, until I thought Miss Caterpillar home safe, said wool, turning his horse's head as if to go. In doing so, he saw Capitola galloping toward the house, and with an exclamation of joy, pointed her out to the old lady, and rode on to meet her. Oh, Miss Caterpillar, I so glad I found you.  Capitola pulled up her horse, and surveyed the speaker with a comical expression, saying, Been out all night looking for me? Well, I must say you seem in a fine state of preservation for a man who has been exposed to the storm all night. You have not a wet thread on you. Lore, Miss, it rained till one o'clock, and then the wind rizz, and blow'd till six, and blow'd me dry, said wool, as he sprang off his horse and helped his young mistress to alight. Then instead of taking the beasts to the stable, he tied them to the tree, and hurried into the house, and upstairs to his master's room, to apprise him of the return of the lost sheep, Capitola. Old Hurricane was lying awake, tossing, groaning, and grumbling with anxiety. Unseeing wool enter, he deliberately raised up, and seized a heavy iron candlestick, and held it ready to hurl at the head of that worthy, whom he thus addressed, Ah, you have come, you atrocious villain, you know the conditions, if you have dared to show your face without bringing your young mistress. Please, Mars, I were out looking for her all night. Have you brought her? Thundered Old Hurricane rising up. Please, Mars, yes, sir. I done found her, and brought her home safe. Send her up to me, said Old Hurricane, sinking back with a sigh of infinite relief. Wool flew to do his bidding. In five minutes, Capitola entered her uncle's chamber.  But no sooner did he see her enter his chamber, safe in sound, and smiling, then indignation quite mastered him, and jumping out of his bed in his nightgown, he made a dash straight at Capitola. Now had Capitola run, there is little doubt but that, in the blindness of his fury, he would have caught and beat her then and there. But Cap saw him coming, drew up her tiny form, folded her arms, and looked him directly in the face. This stopped him, but like a meddlesome old horse, suddenly pulled up in full career, he stamped and reared and plunged with fury, and foamed and spluttered and stuttered before he could get words out.   What do you mean by facing me at all, he roared, shaking his fist within an inch of Capitola's little pug nose? I am here because you sent for me, sir, was Cap's unanswerable rejoinder. Here because I sent for you? Hump, hump, hump! And come dancing and smiling into my room, as if you had not kept me awake all the live long night. Yes, driven me within an inch of brain fever.  Where did you spend the night, you lunatic? At the old hidden house, where I went to make a call on my new neighbor, Miss Day, and where I was caught in the storm.  Oh, ejaculated old Hurricane, turning short and trotting up and down the room. Presently, he stopped before Capitola, and wrapping his cane upon the floor demanded.  Miss Day, Mr. Lenore, Mrs. Knight, and man-servant, name unknown, quillily replied Cap, and the head demon, where was he? Uncle, if by the head demon you mean old Nick, I think it quite likely, from present appearances, that he passed the night at Hurricane Hall. I mean Colonel Lenore, exclaimed old Hurricane, as if the name choked him. Oh, I understood that he had that day left home. Umpf. Oh, ah, that accounts for it, that accounts for it, muttered old Hurricane to himself. Then seeing that Cap was wistfully regarding his face, and attending to his muttered phrases, he broke out upon her width, get out of this, this, this, he meant to say, get out of this house. But a short instinct warned him, that if he should speak thus, Capitola, unlike the other members of his household, would take him at his word.   Old Hurricane stamped up and down the floor, gesticulating like a demoniac, and vociferating, shall get herself birked, kidnapped, murdered, or what not. I'm sure she will. I know it, I feel it. It's no use to order her not to go. She will be sure to disobey, and go ten times as often for the very reason that she was forbidden.  Wool, Wool, you brimstone villain! Come here, he roared, going to the bell-rope, and pulling it until he broke it down.   You are to keep a sharp lookout after your young mistress. Whenever she rides abroad you are to mount a horse, and ride after her, and keep your eyes open, for a few once-lose sight of her you knave.  No, Mars, stammered Wool, pale with apprehension. I should cut your eyelids off to improve your vision. Look to it, sir, for I shall keep my word. And now come and help me to dress, concluded Old Hurricane. Wool, with chattering teeth, shaking knees, and trembling fingers, assisted his master in his morning toilet, meditating the while, whether it were not better to avoid impending dangers by running away. And, in fact, between his master and his mistress, Wool had a hot time of it. The weather, after the storm had cleared the atmosphere, was delightful, and Cap rode out that very day. Poor Wool kept his eyeballs metaphorically skinned, for fear they should be treated literally so.  When Cap stole out, mounted her horse and rode away. In five minutes from the moment of starting, she heard a horse's hooves behind her, and presently saw Wool gallop to her side.  I had much rather ride alone. To which the groom replied, It is old Mars's orders, Miss, as I should wait on you. Capitola's spirit rebelled against this, and suddenly turning upon her attendant, she indignantly exclaimed. Wool, I don't want you, sir. I insist upon being left alone, and I order you to go home, sir. Upon this Wool burst into tears and roared. Much surprised, Capitola inquired of him what the matter was. For some time Wool could only reply by sobbing, but when he was able to articulate he blubbered forth.  What is the matter, Wool, again inquired Capitola?  What? inquired Capitola.  In case that's what old Mars threatens to do long a me, if I don't follow order you and keep you in sight. And now you forbids of me to do it, and, and, and, I'll go and put my neck right underneath a meat-axe. Now Cap was really kind-hearted, and well knowing that a spotic temper of her guardian, she pitted Wool, and after a little hesitation, she said, Wool, so your old master says if you don't keep your eyes on me, he'll cut your eyelids off? Yes, Miss, sobbed Wool. Did he say if you didn't listen to me he'd cut your ears off? No, no, Miss. Did he swear if you didn't talk to me he'd cut your tongue out? No, Miss. Well now, stop howling and listen to me. Since at the peril of your eyelids you are obliged to keep me in sight, I give you leave to ride just within view of me, but no nearer, and you are never to let me see or hear you, if you can help it, for I like to be alone.  While these scenes were going on at Hurricane Hall, momentous events were taking place elsewhere, which require another chapter for their development. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 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 38 Another Mystery at the Hidden House Hark, what a shriek was that of fear and tense, of horror and amazement, what fearful struggle to the door and thence, with mazy doubles to the graded casement. An hour after the departure of Capitola, Colonel Lenore returned to the Hidden House, and learned from his man David that upon the preceding evening, a young girl of whose name he was ignorant had sought shelter from the storm, and passed the night at the mansion. Now Colonel Lenore was extremely jealous of receiving strangers under his roof, never during his short stay at the Hidden House, going out into company, lest he should be obliged and returned to entertain visitors. And when he learned that a strange girl had spent the night beneath his roof, he frowningly directed that Dorcas should be sent to him. When his morose manager made her appearance, he harshly demanded the name of the young woman she had dared to receive beneath his roof. Now whether there is any truth in the theory of magnetism or not, it is certain that Dorcas Knight, stern, harsh, resolute woman that she was toward all others, became as submissive as a child in the presence of Colonel Lenore. At his command she gave him all the information he required, not even withholding the fact of Capitola's strange story, of having seen the apparition of the pale-faced lady in her chamber, together with the subsequent discovery of the laws of her ring. Colonel Lenore sternly reprimanded his domestic manager for her neglect of his orders, and dismissed her from his presence. The remainder of the day was passed by him in moody thought. That evening he summoned his son to a private conference in the parlor, an event that happily delivered poor Clara Day from their presence at her fireside. That night Clara, dreading lest at the end of their interview they might return to her society, retired early to her chamber, where she sat reading until a lay hour, when she went to bed, and found transient forgetfulness of trouble in sleep. She did not know how long she had slept, when she was suddenly and terribly awakened, by a woman shriek sounding from the room immediately overhead, in which, upon the night previous, Capitola had slept. Starting up in bed Clara listened. The shriek was repeated, prolonged in piercing, and was accompanied by a muffled sound of struggling that shook the ceiling overhead. Instinctively springing from her bed Clara threw on her dressing gown and flew to the door, but just as she turned the latch to open it she heard a bolt slip down the outside, and found herself a prisoner in her own chamber. Appalled she stood and listened. Presently there came a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a heavy muffled noise, as of some dead weight being dragged down the staircase and along the passage. Then she heard the hall door cautiously opened and shut, and finally she distinguished the sound of wheels rolling away from the house. Unable longer to restrain herself, she wrapped and beat upon her own door, crying aloud for deliverance. Presently the bolt was withdrawn, the door jerked open, and dorkous night, with a face of horror, stood before her. What is the matter, who was that screaming, and the name of mercy what has happened, cried Clara, shrinking in abhorrence from the ghastly woman. Hush, it is nothing. There were two tomcats screaming and fighting in the attic, and they fought all the way downstairs, rolling over and over each other. I've just turned them out, faltered the woman, shivering as with an egg-fit. What, what was that, that went away in the carriage, asked Clara, shuddering. The colonel, gone to meet the early stage at Tip Top, to take him to Washington. He would have taken leave of you last night, but when he came to your parlor you had left it. But, but there is blood upon your hand, dorkous night, cried Clara, shaking with horror. I, I know, the cat scratched me as I put them out, stammered, the stern woman, trembling almost as much as Clara herself. These answered fail to satisfy the young girl, who shrank in terror and loathing from that woman's presence, and sought the privacy of her own chamber murmuring. What has happened, what has been done? Oh heaven, oh heaven, have mercy on us, some dreadful deed has been done in this house to-night. There was no more sleep for Clara. She heard the clock strike every hour from one to six in the morning, when she arose and dressed herself and went from her room, expecting to see upon floor and walls and upon the faces of the household signs of some dreadful tragedy enacted upon the previous night. But all things were as usual, the same dark, gloomy, and neglected magnificence about the rooms and passages, the same reserved, solemn, and silent aspect about the persons. Dorkous night presided as usual at the head of the breakfast table, and Cravenly Noor at the foot. Clara sat in her custom seat at the side, midway between them. Clara shuddered in taking her cup of coffee from the hand of Dorkous, and declined the wing of fowl that Cravenly Noor would have put upon her plate. Not a word was set upon the subject of the mystery of the preceding night until Cravenly Noor, without venturing to meet the eyes of the young girl, said, You look very pale, Clara. Miss Day was frightened by the cats last night, said Dorkous. Clara answered never a word.  She knew that the cry that had startled her from sleep had burst in strong agony from human lips, that the helpless weight she had heard dragged down the stairs and along the whole length of the passage was some dead or insensible human form, that the blood she had seen upon the hand of Dorkous night was—oh, heaven, her mind shrank back appaled with horror at the thought which she dared not entertain. She could only shudder, pray, and trust in God. Cap. Freeze the captive. Hold, daughter, I do spy a kind of hope, which craves as desperate an execution, as that is desperate, which we would prevent, and if thou derest, I'll give thee remedy. Hold, then, go home, be merry, give consent. To merry Paris, Wednesday is tomorrow. Shakespeare. As the autumn weather was now very pleasant, Capitola continued her rides, and without standing on ceremony repeated her visit to the hidden house. She was, as usual, followed by wool, who kept at a respectful distance, and who, during his mistress's visit, remained outside in attendance upon the horses. Capitola, luckily, was in no danger of encountering Colonel Lenore, who since the night of the mysterious tragedy had not returned home, but had gone to and settled in his winter quarters in Washington City. But she again met Craven Lenore, who, contrary to his usual custom, of accompanying his father upon his annual migrations to the Metropolis, had upon this occasion remained home in close attendance upon his cousin, the wealthy orphan. Capitola found Clara the same sweet, gentle, and patient girl, with this difference only, that her youthful brow was now overshadowed by a heavy trouble, which could not be wholly explained by her state of orphanage or her sorrow for the dead. It was too full of anxiety, gloom, and terror to have reference to the past alone. Capitola saw all this, and, trusting in her own powers, would have sought the confidence of the poor girl, with the view of soothing her sorrows and helping her out of her difficulties. But, misday, candid upon all other topics, was strangely reserved upon the subject, and Capitola, with all her eccentricity, was too delicate to seek to intrude upon the young mourner's sanctuary of grief. But a crisis was fast approaching which rendered further concealment difficult and dangerous, and which threw Clara for protection upon the courage, presence of mind, and address of Capitola. Since Clara Day had parted with her betrothed and had taken up her residence beneath her guardian's roof, she had regularly written both through Travers at St. Louis and to his mother at Stoughton. But she had received no reply from either mother or son, and months had passed, filling the mind of Clara with anxiety upon their account. She did not, for one moment, doubt their constancy. Alas, it required but little perspicacity, on her part, to perceive that the letters on either side must have been intercepted by the Lenors, father and son. Her greatest anxiety was lest Mrs. Rock and Travers, failing to hear from her, should imagine that she had forgotten them. She longed to assure them that she had not, but how should she do this? It was perfectly useless to write and send the letter to the post office by any servant at the hidden house, for such a letter was sure to find its way, not into the mailbags, but into the pocket of Colonel Lenor. Finally Clara resolved to entrust Honest Cap with so much of her story as would engage her interest and cooperation, and then confide to her care a letter to be placed in the post office. Clara had scarcely come to this resolution ere, as we said, an imminent crisis obliged her to seek the further aid of Capitola. Cravenly Nor had never abated his unacceptable attentions to the orphan eras. Day by day, on the contrary, to Clara's unspeakable distress, these attentions grew more pointed and alarming. At first she had received them coldly, and repulsed them gently. But as they grew more ardent and devoted, she became colder and more reserved. Until at length, by maintaining a freezing hard cheer at variance with her usually sweet temper, she sought to repel the declaration that was ever ready to fall from his lips. But notwithstanding her evidence apporance of his suit, Cravenly Nor persisted in his purpose, and so one morning he entered the parlor, and finding Clara alone, he closed the door, seated himself beside her, took her hand, and made a formal declaration of love and proposal of marriage, urging his suit with all the eloquence of which he was master. Now Clara Day, a Christian maiden, a recently bereaved orphan, and in a fianceed bride, had too profound a regard for her duties toward God, her father's will, and her betrothed husband's rights, to treat this attempted invasion of her faith in any other than the most deliberate, serious, and dignified manner. I am very sorry, Mr. Lay Nor, that it has at length come to this. I thought I had conducted myself in such a manner as totally to discourage any such purpose as this, which you have just honored me by disclosing. Now, however, that the subject may be set at rest for ever, I feel bound to announce to you that my hand is already plaited, said Clara, gravely. But my fairest and dearest love, your little hand cannot be plaited without the consent of your guardian, who would never countenance the impudent pretensions which I understand to be made by the low-born young man to whom I presume you allude. That engagement was a very foolish affair, my dear girl, only to be palliated on the ground of your extreme childishness at the time of its being made.  Clara coldly repelled him, saying, I am at a loss to understand, Mr. Lay Nor, what act of levity on my part has given you the assurance to offer me this affront. Do you call it in affront, fair cousin, that I lay my hand and heart and fortune at your feet? I have called your axer by its gentlest name. Under the circumstances I might well have called it an outrage. And what may be those circumstances that convert an act of adoration into an outrage, my sweet cousin? Sir, you know them well. I have not concealed from you, or my guardian, that I am the affonsaid bride of Dr. Rock, nor that our troth was plaited with the full consent of my dear father, said Clara, gravely. Tut, tut, tut, my charming cousin, that was mere child's play, a schoolgirl's romantic whim.  Mr. Lay Nor, if you permit yourself to address me in this manner, I shall feel compelled to retire. I cannot remain here to have my honoured father's will and memory, and the rights of my betrothed, insulted in my person, said Clara, rising to leave the room. No, stay, forgive me, Clara.   You require extra vigilance and firm exercise of authority on the part of your guardian to save you from certain self-destruction.   Nor do I suppose he ever did plait your hands, while in his right senses. Oh, sir, this has been discussed before. I beg of you to let the subject drop forever, remembering that I hold myself sacredly betrothed to Traverse Rock, and ready, when at my legal majority, he shall claim me, to redeem my plaited faith by becoming his wife. Clara, this is madness, it must not be endured, nor shall not. I have hitherto sought to win your hand, by showing you the great extent of my love, but be careful how you scorn that love, or continue to taunt me with the mention of an unworthy rival. For though I use gentle means, should I find them fail of their purpose, I shall know how to avail myself of harsher ones. Clara disdained reply, except by permitting her clear eye to pass over him from head to foot, with an expression of consuming scorn that scathed him to the quick.  Even though to do so he strained his authority, and coerced you into taking a more suitable companion, said Craven Lenore, rising impatiently and pacing the floor. But no sooner had he spoken these words, than he saw how greatly he had injured his cause, and repented them. Going to Clara, and intercepting her as she was about to leave the room, he gently took her hand, and, dropping his eyes to the floor, with a look of humility and penitence, he said, Clara, my sweet cousin, I know not how sufficiently to express my sorrow at having been hurried into harshness toward you, toward you whom I love more than my own soul, and whom it is the fondest wish of all my heart to call wife. I can only excuse myself for this, or any future extravagance of manner by my excess of love for you, and the jealousy that maddens my brain at the bare mention of my rival. That is it, sweet girl, can you forgive one whom love and jealousy have hurried into frenzy? Mr. Lenore, the Bible enjoins me to forgive injuries. I shall endeavor when I can to forgive you, though for the present my heart is still burning under the sense of wrongs done toward myself and those whom I love and esteem, and the only way in which you can make me forget what has just passed will be never to repeat the offense, and with these words Clara bent her head and passed from the room. Could she have seen the malignant scowl and gesture with which cravenly Nor followed her departure? She would scarcely have trusted his expressions of penitence. Lifting his arm above his head, he fiercely shook his fist after her and exclaimed, Go on, insolent girl, and imagine that you have humbled me, but the tune shall be changed by this day month, for before that time whatever power the law gives the husband over his wife and her property shall be mine over you and your possessions. Then we will see who shall be insolent, then we shall see whose proud blue eye shall day after day dare to look up and rebuke me. Oh, to get you in my power, my girl, not that I love you moon-faced creature, but I want your possessions, which is quite as strong an incentive. Then he fell into thought.  She is not like the other one, she has more sense and strength, she will give us more trouble. We must continue to try fair means a little longer. It will be difficult, for I am not accustomed to control my passions, even for a purpose. Yet penitents and love are the only cards to be played to this insolent girl for the present.  The immediate result of this cogitation was that he went into the library and wrote off a letter to his father, telling him all that had transpired between himself and Clara, and asking his further counsel. He dispatched this letter and waited an answer. During the week that ensued before he could hope to hear from Colonel Lenore, he treated Clara with marked deference and respect, and Clara on her part did not tax his forbearance by appearing in his presence oftener than she could possibly avoid. At the end of the week the expected letter came. It was short and to the purpose. It ran thus. Washington, December 14th, 18. My dear Craven, you are losing time. Do not hope to win the girl by the means you propose. She is too acute to be deceived, and too firm to be persuaded. We must not hesitate to use the only possible means by which we can coercer into compliance. I shall follow this letter by the first stagecoach, and before the beginning of the next month, Clara Day shall be your wife, your affectionate father, Gabriel Lenore. C. Lenore, Esquire, Hidden House When Craven Lenore read this letter, his thin white face and deep-set eyes lighted up with triumph. But Colonel Lenore hazarded before he was out of the woods. He had not calculated upon Capitola. The next day Colonel Lenore came to the Hidden House. He arrived late in the afternoon. After refreshing himself with the bath, a change of clothing, and a light luncheon, he went to the library, where he passed the remainder of the evening, in a confidential conference with his son. Their supper was ordered to be served up to them there, and for that evening Clara had the comfort of taking her tea alone. The result of this conference was that the next morning, after breakfast, Colonel Lenore sent for Miss Day to come to him in the library. When Clara, nerving her gentle heart to resist a sinful tyranny, entered the library, Colonel Lenore arose, and courteously handed her to a chair, and then, seating himself beside her, said, My dear Clara, the responsibilities of a guardian are always very onerous, and his duty is not always very agreeable, especially when his ward is the sole heiress of a large property, and the object of pursuit by fortune-hunters and manoeuvres, male and female, when such is the case, the duties and responsibilities of the guardian are augmented a hundredfold. Sir, this cannot be so in my case, since you are perfectly aware that my destiny is, humanly speaking, already decided, replied Clara, with gentle firmness, as, how I pray you, my fair ward. You cannot possibly be at a loss to understand, sir. You have already been advised that I am betrothed to Dr. Rock, who will claim me as his wife upon the day that I shall complete my twenty-first year. Miss Clara Day, no more of that I beseech you. It is folly, perversity, frenzy, but thanks to the wisdom of legislators, the law very properly invests the guardian with great latitude of discretionary power of the person and property of his ward, to be used, of course, for that ward's best interest.  To do this, I must provide you with a suitable husband. My son, Mr. Craven Lenore, has long loved and wooed you. He is a young man of good reputation and fair prospects. I entirely approve his suit, and as your guardian I command you to receive him for your destined husband. Colonel Lenore, this is no time for baited breath and whispered humbleness. I am but a simple girl of seventeen, but I understand your purpose and that of your son, just as well as though I were an old man of the world. You are the fortune-hunters and manoeuvres. It is the fortune of the wealthy heiress and friendless orphan that you are in pursuit of. But that fortune, like my hand and heart, is already promised to one I love.  Die, girl, there are worse things than death in the world, said Colonel Lenore, with a threatening glare. I know it, and one of the worst things in the world would be a union with a man I could neither esteem nor even endure, exclaimed Clara. Colonel Lenore saw that there was no use in further disguise. Throwing off, then, the last restraints of good-breeding, he said, and there are still more terrible evils for a woman than to be the wife of one she can neither esteem nor endure.  There are evils to escape which such a woman would go down upon her bended knees to be made the wife of such a man. Clara's gentle eyes flashed with indignation.  The evils to which I allude are comprised in, a life of dishonor, his Lenore through his set teeth. This to my father's daughter exclaimed Clara, growing weight is death at the insult. I, my girl, it is time we understood each other. You are in my power, and I intend to coerce you to my will. These words accompanied, as they were, by a look that left no doubt upon her mind, that he would carry out his purpose to any extremity. So appalled the maiden soul that she stood like one suddenly strapped with catalepsy. The unscripturalist wretch then approached her and said, I am now going to the county seat to take out a marriage license for you and my son. I shall have the carriage at the door by six o'clock this evening, when I desire that you shall be ready to accompany us to church, where a clerical friend will be in attendance, to perform the marriage ceremony. Clara, day, if you would save your honour, look to this. All this time Clara had neither moved, nor spoke, nor breathed. She had stood cold, white, and still, as of turn to stone. Let no vain hope of escape delude your mind. The doors will be kept locked. The servants are all warned not to suffer you to leave the house. Look to it, Clara, for the rising of another son shall see my purpose accomplished. And with these words the atrocious wretch left the room. His departure took off the dreadful spell that had paralyzed Clara's life.  Oh Lord, she cried. Oh Lord, who delivered the children from the fiery furnace, delivered thy poor handmaiden now from her terrible foes. While she thus prayed, she saw upon the writing-table before her a small pen-knife. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes brightened as she seized it. This, this, she said, this small instrument is sufficient to save me. Should the worst ensue, I know where to find the carotid artery, and even such a slight puncture as my timorous hand could make, would set my spirit free.  And would it be right? Oh, would it be right? One may desire death, but can anything justify suicide? Oh, Father in heaven, guide me, guide me, said Clara, falling upon her knees, and sobbing forth this prayer of agony. Soon approaching footsteps drew her attention, and she had only time to rise, and put back her damp, dishevelled hair from her tear-stained face, before the door opened, and Orcus Knight appeared and said, Here is this young woman come again. I declare, Miss Day, said Cap, laughing, You have the most accomplished, plight, and agreeable servants here that I ever met with. Think with what a courteous welcome this woman received me. Here you are again, she said. You'll come once too often for your own good, and that I tell you. I answered that every time I came it appeared to be once too often for her liking. She rejoined. The Colonel has come home, and he don't like company. So I advise you to make your call a short one. I assured her that I should measure the length of my visit, by the breadth of my will. But good angels, Clara, what is the matter? You look worse than death, exclaimed Capitola, noticing for the first time the pale, wild, despairing face of her companion. Clara clasped her hands as if in prayer, and raised her eyes with an appealing glance into Capitola's face. Tell me, dear Clara, what is the matter? How can I help you? What shall I do for you? said our heroine. Before trusting herself to reply, Clara gazed wistfully into Capitola's eyes as though she would have read her soul. Cap did not blanch, nor for an instant overt her own honest gray orbs. She let Clara gaze straight down through those clear windows of the soul into the very soul itself, where she found only truth, honesty, and courage. The scrutiny seemed to be satisfactory, for Clara soon took the hand of her visitor, and said, Capitola, I will tell you. It is a horrid, horrid story, but you shall know all. Come with me to my chamber. Cap pressed the hand that was so confidingly placed in hers, and accompanied Clara to her room, where, after the latter had taken the precaution to lock the door, the two girls sat down for a confidential talk. Clara, like the author of Robin Hood's Barn, began at the beginning of her story, and told everything. Her betrothal to Traverse Rock, the sudden death of her father, the decision of the orphan's court, the departure of Traverse for the far west, her arrival at the hidden house, the interruption of all her epistolary correspondence with her betrothed and his mother, the awful and mysterious occurrences of that dreadful night when she suspected some heinous crime had been committed, and finally of the long, unwelcome suit of Craven Lenore, and the present attempt to force him upon her as a husband. Cap listened very calmly to the story, showing very little sympathy, for there was not a bit of sentimentality about our Cap. And now, whispered Clara, while the paler of horror overspread her face, by threatening me with a fate worse than death, they would drive me to marry Craven Lenore. Yes, I know I would, said Cap, as of speaking to herself, but by her tone and manner, clothing these simple words, and the very keenest sarcasm. What would you do, Capitola? asked Clara, raising her tearful eyes to the last speaker. Mary Craven Lenore, and thank him too, said Cap. Then suddenly changing her tone, she exclaimed, I wish—oh, how I wish—it was only me in your place, that it was only me they were trying to marry against my will. What would you do? asked Clara, earnestly. What would I do? Oh, wouldn't I make them know the difference between their sovereign lady and Sam the Lackey?   Alas, alas, see here, this is my last resort, replied the unhappy girl, showing the little penknife.  Suicide is never, never, never justifiable. God is the Lord of life and death. He is the only judge, whether immortal sorrows are to be relieved by death, and when he does not himself release you, he means that you shall live and endure. That proves that suicide is never right. Let the Roman pagans have said and done what they pleased. So no more of that. There are enough other ways of escape for you. Ah, what are they? You would give me life by teaching me how to escape, said Clara fervently. The first and most obvious means that suggests itself to my mind, said Cap, is to run away. Ah, that is impossible. The servants are warned. The doors are all locked. I am watched. Then the next plan is equally obvious. Consent to go with them to the church, and when you get there, denounce them, and claim the protection of the clergyman. Ah, dear girl, that is still more impracticable. The officiating clergyman is their friend, and even if I could consent to act a deceitful part, and should go to church as if to marry Craven, and upon getting there denounce him, instead of receiving the protection of the clergyman, I should be restored to the hands of my legal guardian, and be brought back here to meet a fate worse than death, said Clara, in a tone of despair. Capitola did not at once reply, but fell into deep thought which lasted many minutes. Then speaking more gravely than she had spoken before, she said, there is but one plan of escape left, your only remaining chance, and that full of danger. Oh, why should I fear danger? What evil can befall me so great as that which now threatens me? said Clara. This plan requires, on your part, great courage, self-control, and presence of mind. Teach me, teach me, dear Capitola, I will be an apt pupil. I have thought it all out, and will tell you my plan. It is now eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and the courage is to come for you at six this evening, I believe. Yes, yes. Then you have seven hours in which to save yourself. And this is my plan. First, Clara, you must change clothes with me, giving me your suit of morning, and putting on my riding-habit, ha, and veil. Then leaving me here in your place, you are to pull the veil down closely over your face, and walk right out of the house. No one will speak to you, for they never do to me. When you have reached the park, spring upon my horse, and put whip to him for the village of Tip-Top. My servant, wool, will ride after you, but not speak to you, or approach near enough to discover your identity, for he has been ordered by his master to keep me in sight, and he has been forbidden by his mistress to intrude upon her privacy. You will reach Tip-Top by three o'clock, when the stoton stage passes through. You may then reveal yourself to wool, give my horse into his charge, get into the coach, and start for stoton. Upon reaching that place, put yourself under the protection of your friends, the two old physicians, and get them to prosecute your guardian for cruelty and flagrant abuse of authority. Be cool, firm, and alert, and all will be well. Clara, who had listened to this little Napoleon in petticoats with breathless interest, now clasped her hands in a wild ecstasy of joy and exclaimed, I will try it, O Capitola, I will try it. Heaven bless you for the council. Be quick, then, change your dress, provide yourself with a purse of money, and I will give you particular directions how to make a shortcut for Tip-Top. Ha, ha, ha, when they come for the bride, she will be already rolling on the turnpike between Tip-Top and Stoton.  But you will place yourself in the enraged lion's jaws. You will remain in the power of two men who know neither justice nor mercy, who in their love or their hate fear neither God nor man. O Capitola, how can I take an advantage of your generosity, and leave you here in such extreme peril? Capitola, I cannot do it. Well, then, I believe you must be anxious to marry Craven Lenore. Oh, Capitola, well, if you are not, hurry and get ready, there is no time to be lost. But you, but you, my generous friend, never mind me, I shall be safe enough. I am not afraid of the Lenors. Bless their wigs. I should like to see them make me blanch. On the contrary, I desire above all things to be pitted against these two. How I shall enjoy their disappointment and rage. Oh, it will be a rare frolic. While Capitola was speaking, she was also busily engaged doing. She went softly to the door, and turned the key in the lock, to prevent anyone from looking through the keyhole, murmuring as she did it. I wasn't brought up among the detective policemen for nothing. Then she began to take off her riding habit. Quickly she dressed Clara, superintending all the details of her disguise, as carefully as though she were the customer of a new debutante. When Clara was dressed she was so nearly of the same size and shape of Capitola that from behind no one would have suspected her identity.  And there, I declare, no one could tell you from me, exclaimed Capitola in delight, as she completed the disguise and the instructions of Clara. Then Capitola dressed herself in Clara's deep morning robes, and then the two girls sat down to compose themselves for a few minutes, while Capitola gave new and particular directions for Clara's course and conduct, so as to ensure as far as human foresight could do it, the safe termination of her perilous adventure. By the time they had entered their talk the hall clock struck 12. There it is full time you should be off. Be calm, be cool, be firm, and God bless you, Clara. Dear girl, if I were only a young man I would deliver you by the strength of my own arms, without subjecting you to inconvenience or danger, said Cap gallantly, as she led Clara to the chamber door and carefully gathered her thick veil and close folds over her face, so as to entirely conceal it. Oh, may the Lord in heaven bless and preserve and reward you, my brave, my noble, my heroic Capitola, said Clara fervently, with the tears rushing to her eyes.  There, keep your veil close, for it's windy you know.  Clara paused an instant to offer up one short, fervent prayer for her success and Capitola's safety, and then following her instructions went on. Nearly all girls are clever imitators, and Clara readily adopted Capitola's light, springy, swaying walk and met old, dorkest night in the hall, without exciting the slightest suspicion of her identity. Humpf, said the woman, so you are going, I advise you not to come back again.  Very well, you may scorn my words, but if you know your own good, you'll follow my advice, said dorkest night, harshly. Clara flung up her head and passed out. Before the door, Wool was waiting with the horses. Keeping her face closely muffled, Clara went to Capitola's pony. Wool came and helped her into the saddle, saying, your does right, Miss Cap, to keep your face kivered, it's all for windy ain't it, though. I can scarcely keep the har from lowing off my head.  Wool dropped obediently behind, mounted his horse, and followed at a respectful distance, until Clara turned her horse's head, and took the bridal path toward Tip Top. This move filled poor Wool with dismay, riding toward her, he exclaimed, deed, Miss Cap, you must excuse me for speaking now. Where'd he mischief as you're a-going to? For I'll answer, Clara, feigning the temper of Capitola, suddenly wheeled her horse, elevated her riding whip, and galloped upon Wool in a threatening manner. Wool dodged and backed his horse with all possible expedition, exclaiming in consternation. Dar, Dar, Miss Cap, I won't go for to ask you any more questions. No, not if you ride straight to Old Nick or Black Donald. Whereupon, receiving this apology in good part, Clara again turned her horse's head, and rode on her way. Wool followed, bemoaning the destiny that kept him between the two fierce fires of his old master's despotism and his young mistress's caprice, and muttering, I know old Mars and this young Gale am going to be the death of me. I know it just as well as nothing at all. I, Clara to man, if it ain't enough to make anybody go heave themselves right into a grist mill and be ground up at once. Wool spoke no more until they got to Tip Top, when Clara, still closely veiled, rode up to the stage-office, just as the coach, half-filled with passengers, was about to start. Springing from her horse, she went to Wool and said, Here, man, take this horse back to Hurricane Hall. Tell Major Warfield that Miss Black remains at the hidden house in imminent danger. Ask him to ride there and bring her home. Tell Miss Black when you see her that I reached Tip Top safe, and in time to take the coach. Tell her I will never cease to be grateful. And now here is a half eagle for your trouble. Good-bye, and God bless you. And she put the piece in his hand and took her place in the coach, which immediately started. As for Wool, from the time that Clara had thrown aside her veil and began to speak to him, he had stood staring and staring, his consternation growing and growing, until it had seemed to have turned him into stone. From which state of petrification he did not recover until he saw the stage-coach roll rapidly away, carrying off whom? Capitola, Clara, or the evil one. Wool could not have told which. He presently astounded the people about the stage-office by leaving his horses and taking to his heels after the stage-coach, vociferating. Murder! Murder! Help! Help! Stop thief! Stop thief! Stop the coach! Stop the coach! What is the matter, man? said a constable, trying to head him. But Wool incontinently ran over the officer, throwing him down and keeping on his headlong course, hat off, coattail streaming, and legs and arms flying like the sails of a windmill as he tried to overtake the coach, crying, Help! Murder! Head the horses! Stop the coach! Old Mars told me not to lose sight of her. Oh, for heaven's sakes, good people! Stop the coach! When he got to a gate, instead of taking time to open it, he rolled himself somersault-like right over it. When he met man or woman, instead of turning from his straight horse, he knocked them over and passed on, garments flying, and legs and arms circulating with the velocity of a wheel. The people whom he had successively met and overthrown in his course, picking themselves up and getting into the village, reported that there was a furious madman broke loose, who attacked everyone he met. And soon every man and boy in the village who could mount a horse started in pursuit. Only race horses would have been in the speed with which Wool ran, urged on by fear. It was nine miles on the Turnpike road from Tip-Top that the horsemen overtook and surrounded Wool, who, seeing himself hopelessly environed, fell down upon the ground and rolled and kicked, swearing that he would not be taken alive to have his eyelids cut off. It was not until after a desperate resistance that he was finally taken, bound, put in a wagon, and carried back to the village, where he was recognized as Major Warfield's man, and a messenger was dispatched for his master. And not until he had been repeatedly assured that no harm should befall him, did Wool gain composure enough to say, amid tears of cruel grief and fear.  Deed she is!  Deed he will, Gemmon! He went and ordered me not to take my eyes off in her, and no more I didn't. But what good that do, when she turned to somebody else, and went off right before my two-looking eyes! But ol' Mars won't listen to reason. He'll kill me, I know he will, whimpered Wool, refusing to be comforted. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 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 40 CAP IN CAPTIVITY I lingered here and rescue-planned, for Clara and for me. Scott Meanwhile, how fared it with Capitola in the Hidden House? I am in for it now, said Cap, as she closed the door behind Clara. I am in for it now. This is a jolly, imprudent adventure. What will Wool do when he discovers that he has lost sight of me? What will Uncle say when he finds out what I've done? Woo! Uncle will explode. I wonder if the walls at Hurricane Hall will be strong enough to stand it. Wool will go mad. I doubt if he will ever do a bit more good in this world. But above all, I wonder what they'll lay noors. Father and son will say when they find that the heiress has flown, and a beggar, as Uncle flatters me by calling me, will be here in her place. Woo! Woo! Woo! There will be a tornado. Cap, child, they'll murder you. That's just what they'll do.  Hush! Here comes darkest night. Now I must make believe I'm Clara, and do the sentimental, up-brown, concluded Capitola, as she seated herself near the door, where she could be heard, and began to sob softly. Dork is wrapped. Cap sobbed in response. Are you coming to lunch in misday? Enquired the woman. I do not want to eat, sobbed Cap, in a low and smothered voice. Anyone would have thought she was drowned in tears. Very well, just as you like, said the woman harshly, as she went away. Well, I declare, left Cap, I did that quite as well as an actress could. But now what am I to do? How long can I keep this up? Hi-ho, let the world slide. I'll not reveal myself until I'm driven to it, for when I do. Cap, child, you'll get chowed right up. A little later in the day, Dorkest night came again, and wrapped at the door. Yee-hee, yee-hee, yee-hee, sobbed Cap. Misty, your cousin, Craven Lenore, wishes to speak with you alone. Yee-hee, yee-hee, yee-hee. I cannot see him, sobbed Cap, in a low and suffocating voice. The woman went away, and Cap suffered no other interruption until six o'clock, when Dorkest night once more wrapped, saying, Misty, your uncle is at the front door with a carriage, and he wishes to know if you are ready to obey him. Yee-hee, yee-hee, yee-hee. T-t-t, tell him yes, sobbed Cap, as if her heart would break.  A pretty bridal dress this, but, however, I suppose these men are no more particular about my costume than they are about their own conduct, said Cap. She had just drawn on her gloves when she heard the footsteps of two men approaching. They wrapped at the door. Come in, she sobbed in a low, broken voice, that might have belonged to any girl in deep distress.  The two lanors immediately entered the room. Craven approached her and whispered softly, You will forgive me this, my share in these proceedings, after a while, sweet Clara. The Sabine woman did not love the Roman youths the less that they were forcibly made wives by then. Yee-hee, yee-hee, yee-hee. sobbed Cap, entirely concealing her white cambrick hankerchief under her impenetrable veil. Come, come, we lose time, said the elder Lenore. Draw her arm within yours, Craven, and lead her out. The young man did as he was directed, and led Cap from the room. It was now quite dark. The long, dreary passage was only dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, so that with the care she took, there was scarcely a possibility of Capitola's being discovered. They went on, Craven Lenore whispering hypocritical apologies, and Cap replying only by low sobs. When they reached the outer door, they found a close carriage drawn up before the house. To this Craven Lenore led Capitola, placed her within, and took the seat by her side. Colonel Lenore followed, and placed himself in the front seat opposite them, and the carriage was driven rapidly off. An hour's ride brought the party to an obscure church in the depths of the forest, which Capitola recognized by the cross on its top to be a Roman Catholic chapel. Here the carriage drew up, and the two Lenores got out and assisted Capitola to a light. They then led her into the church, which was dimly illumined by a pair of wax candles, burning before the altar. A priest in a sacerdotal robes was in attendance. A few country people were scattered thinly about among the pews, at their private devotions. Guarded by Craven Lenore on the right, and Colonel Lenore on the left, Capitola was marched up the aisle, and placed before the altar. Colonel Lenore then went and spoke apart to the officiating priest, saying, in a tone of dissatisfaction, I told you, sir, that as our bride was an orphan, recently bereaved, and still in deep mourning, we wished the marriage ceremony to be strictly private, and you gave me to understand, sir, that at this hour the chapel was most likely to be vacant. Yet here I find a half-score of people. How is this? Sir, replied the priest, it is true that at this hour of the evening the chapel is most likely to be vacant, but it is not therefore certain to be so, nor did I promise as much. Our chapel is, as you know, open at all hours of the day and night, that all who please may come and pray.  They can certainly be no interruption to this ceremony. E'gad, I don't know that, muttered Colonel Lenore, between his teeth. As for Cap, the sight of other persons present in the chapel filled her heart with joy and exaltation, in as much as it ensured her final safety. And so she just abandoned herself to the spirit of frolic that possessed her, and anticipated with the keenest relish the denouement of her strange adventure. Well, what are we waiting for? Proceed, sir, proceed, said Colonel Lenore, as he took Cap by the shoulders, and placed her on the left side of his son, while he himself stood behind, ready to give the bride away. The ceremony immediately commenced. The prologue beginning, dearly beloved, we are gathered together here, etc., etc., etc., was read. The solemn exhortation to the contracting parties commencing. I require and charge ye both, as ye shall answer in the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all heart shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any just cause or impediment, why ye may not lawfully be joined together, etc., etc., etc., followed. Capitole listened to all this with the deepest attention, saying to herself, Well, I declare, this getting married is really awfully interesting. If it were not for Herbert Grayson, I'd just let it go right straight onto the end, and see what would happen next. While Cap was making these mental comments, the priest was asking the bridegroom, Will to thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, etc., etc., etc., so long as ye both shall live? To which Cravenly Nor, in a sonorous voice responded, I will. Indeed you will. We'll see that presently, said Cap to herself. The priest, then turning toward the bride, inquired, Will thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, etc., etc., etc., so long as ye both shall live? To which the bride, throwing aside her veil, answered firmly, No, not if he were the last man and I the last woman on the face of the earth, and the human race was about to become extinct, and the angel of Gabriel came down from above to ask it of me as a personal favor. The effect of this outburst, this revelation, this explosion, may be imagined, but can never be adequately described. The priest dropped his book, and stood with lifted hands, and open mouth, and staring eyes, as though he had raised a ghost. The two Lenors simultaneously sprang forward, astonishment, disappointment, and rage contending in their blanched faces. Who are you, girl? exclaimed Colonel Lenor. Capitola Black, your honor's glory, she replied, making a deep curtsy. What the foul fiend is the meaning of all this? In the same breath inquired the father and son. Cap put her thumb on the side of her nose, and whirling her four fingers, replied, It means, your worship's excellencies, that you can't come it. It's no go. This chicken won't fight. It means that the fat's in the fire, and the cat's out of the bag. It means confusion, distraction, perdition, and a tearing off of our wigs. It means the game's up, the play's over, villainy is about to be hanged, and virtue about to be married, and the curtain is going to drop, and the principal performer, that's I, is going to be called out amid the applause of the audience. Then suddenly changing her mocking tone to one of great severity, she said. It means that you have been outwitted by a girl. It means that your purposed victim has fled, and is by this time in safety. It means that you, too, precious father and son, would be a pair of knaves if you had sense enough. But failing in that, you were only a pair of fools. By this time, the attention of the few persons in the church was aroused. They all rose to their feet to look and listen, and some of them left their places and approached the altar. And to these latter Capitola now suddenly turned, and said aloud, Good people, I am Capitola Black, the niece and ward of Major Ira Warfield, of Hurricane Hall, whom you all know, and now I claim your protection while I shall tell you the meaning of my presence here. Don't listen to her. She is a maniac, cried Colonel Lenore.  Capitola struggled so fiercely to free herself that Craven had enough to do to hold her, and so was not aware of her ringing footstep coming up the side, until a stunning blow dealt from a strong arm, covered his face with blood, and stretched him out at Capitola's feet. Cap flushed, breathless and confused, looked up, and was caught to the bosom of Herbert Grayson, who pale with concentrated rage, held her closely and inquired, Capitola, what violence is this which has been done you? Explain. Who is the aggressor? Wait, wait, wait until I get my breath. There, that was good. That villain has all but strangled me to death. Oh, Herbert, I'm so delighted you've come. How is it that you always drop right down at the right time and on the right spot, said Cap, while gasping for breath? I will tell you another time. Now I want an explanation. Yes, Herbert, I also wish to explain, not only to you, but to these gaping good people. Let me have a hearing, said Cap. She is mad, absolutely mad, cried Colonel Lenore, who was assisting his son to rise. Silence, sir, thundered Herbert Grayson, advancing toward him, with uplifted and threatening hand. Gentlemen, gentlemen, pray remember that you are within the walls of a church, said the distressed priest. Craven, this is no place for us. Let us go and pursue our fugitive ward, whispered Colonel Lenore to his son. We might as well, for it is clear that all is over here, replied Craven, and the two baffled villains turned to leave the place. But Herbert Grayson, speaking upset, good people prevent the escape of those men until we hear what this young lady has to say, that we may judge whether to let them go, or to take them before a magistrate. The people flew to the doors and windows and secured them, and then surrounded the two Lenores, who found themselves prisoners. Now, Capitola, tell us how it is that you are here, said Herbert Grayson. Well, that elder man, said Cap, is the guardian of a young garrus, who is betrothed to a worthy young man, one Dr. Trevor Strock. My friend, interrupted, Herbert. Yes, Mr. Grayson, your friend. Their engagement was approved by the young lady's father, who gave them his dying blessing. Nevertheless, in the face of all this, this guardian here, appointed by the orphan's court to take charge of the garrus and her fortune, undertakes for his own ends to compel the young lady to break her engagement and marry his own son. To drive her to this measure, he does not hesitate to use every species of cruelty. This night he was to have forced her to this altar. But in the interval, today, I chanced to visit her at the house where she was confined. Being informed of her distressing situation, and having no time to help her in any better way, I just changed clothes with her. She escaped unsuspected in my dress, and those two heroes there, mistaking me for her, forced me into a carriage and dragged me hither to be married against my will. And instead of catching an heiress, they caught a tartar, that's all. And now, Herbert, let the two poor wretches go hide their mortification, and do you take me home, for I am immensely tired of doing the sentimental, making speeches, and piling up the agonies. While Cap was delivering this long duration, the two laynoors had made several essays to interrupt and contradict her, but were effectually prevented by the people, whose sympathies were all with the speaker. Now at Herbert Grayson's command they released the culprits, who threatening loudly took their departure. Herbert then led Capitola out and placed her upon her own pony, which to her unbounded astonishment she found there in charge of wool, who was also mounted upon his own hack. Herbert Grayson threw himself into the saddle of a third horse, and the three took the road to Hurricane Hall. And now, said Capitola, as Herbert rode up to her side, for mercy's sake, tell me, before I go crazy with conjecture, how it happened that you dropped down from the sky at the very moment and on the very spot where you were needed, and where did you light upon wool in the horses? It is very simple when you come to understand it, said Herbert smiling. In the first place, you know, I graduated at the last commencement. Yes, well, I have just received a Lieutenant's commission in a regiment that is ordered to join General Scott in Mexico. Oh, Herbert, that is news, and I don't know whether to be in despair or in ecstasy, said Cap, ready to laugh or cry, as a feather's weight might tip the scales in which she balanced Herbert's new honors with his approaching perils. If there's any doubt about it, I decidedly recommend the latter emotions, said Herbert, laughing. When do you go, inquired Cap? Our regiment embarks from Baltimore on the first of next month. Meanwhile, I got leave of absence to come and spend a week with my friends at home.  I am just going to do so. Well, you see, Capitola, I came down in the stage to Tip-Top, which I reached about three o'clock. And there I found wool in the hands of the Philistines, suspected of being mad, from the manner in which he raved about losing sight of you. Well, of course, like a true knight, I delivered my Lady Squire, comforted and reassured him, and made him mount his own horse and take charge of yours, after which I mounted the best beast that I had hired to convey me to Hurricane Hall, and we all set off thither. I confess that I was excessively anxious upon your account, for I could make nothing whatever of wool's wild story of your supposed metamorphosis. I thought it best to make a circuit, and take the hidden house in our course, to make some inquiries there as to what had really happened. I had got a little bewildered between the dark night and the strange road, and seeing the light in the church, I had just ridden up to inquire my way, when to my astonishment I saw you within, before the altar, struggling in the grasp of that ruffian. And you know the rest. And now let us ride on quickly, for I have a strong presentiment that Major Warfield is suffering the tortures of a lost soul, through anxiety upon your account, concluded Herbert Grayson.  We shall tell your old master all about it, wool, for I would not have him miss the pleasure of hearing this adventure upon any account. But I promise to bear you harmless through it, said Herbert, as they galloped rapidly toward home. They reached Hurricane Hall by eight o'clock, and in good time for supper. They found old Hurricane storming all over the house, and ordering everybody off the premises, in his fury of anxiety upon Capitola's account. But when the party arrived, surprise at seeing them in the company of Herbert Grayson, quite revolutionised his mood, and forgetting to rage, he gave them all a hearty welcome.  That was his highest style of praise. Then Herbert told his own little story of getting his commission, and being ordered to Mexico.  Then seeing that the young people were quite worn out with fatigue, and feeling not averse to his own comfortable couch, old Hurricane broke up the circle, and they all retired to rest. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 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 41, An Unexpected Visitor at Mara's Cottage Friend, wilt thou give me shelter here, the stranger meekly saith? My life is hunted, evil men are following on my path. Mara Rock 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 crackery wear on the right, and the shelves with Traverse's old schoolbooks 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 wider 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 boys' light and springing step, and cheerful voice as he hurried home even tide 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 Mara sat very still and sad, bending over her needle work 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 dreary or 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 towards 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, December 1st, 1840 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 do not know what to think. Anxiety upon her account is my one soul trouble. Not that I wronged the dear girl by one instance 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 suffering she may be subjected by Lenore, 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 must try to go. It will be an awful expense because I know no one down there. And I shall have to board at the tavern and tip-top while I am making inquiries. For I dare not approach the dwelling of Gabriel Lenore, said Mara Rock, as she folded up her letter and replaced it in her bosom. Just at that moment she heard the sound of wheels approach, and a vehicle of some sort dropped to the gate, and someone speaking without. She went to the door, and listening, heard a girlish voice say, A dollar? Yes, certainly, here it is. There, you may go now. She recognized the voice, and with a cry of joy jerked the door open, just as the carriage rolled away. And the next instant Clara Day was in her arms. Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling, is this really you? Really, really you? And no dream? cried Mara Rock, all in a flutter of excitement, as she strained Clara to her bosom. Yes, it is I, sweet friend. Come to stay with you a long time, perhaps, said Clara softly, returning her caresses.  I do think I shall go crazy. Where did you come from, my pet? Who came with you? When did you start? Did they nor consent to your coming? And how did it all happen? But, dear child, how worn and weary you look! You must be very tired. Have you had supper? Oh, my darling, come and lie on this soft lounge while I put away your things, and get you some refreshment, said Mara Rock, in a delirium of joy, as she took off Clara's hat and sack, and laid her down to rest on the lounge, which she wheeled up near the fire. Oh, my sweet, we have been so anxious about you, Traverse and myself. Traverse is still at St. Louis, love, getting on slowly. He has written to you every week, and so indeed have I. But we neither of us have had so much as one letter in reply. And yet neither of us ever doubted your true heart, my child. We knew that the letters must have been lost, miscarried, or intercepted, said Mara, as she busied herself putting on the tea-cuddle. They must indeed, since my experience in regard to letters, exactly corresponds with yours. I have written every week to both of you, yet never received one line in reply from either, said Clara. We knew it, we said so. Oh, those lay noors, those lay noors! But, my darling, you are perfectly exhausted. And though I have asked you a half and hundred questions, you shall not reply to one of them, nor talk a bit more until you have rested and had refreshment. Here, my love, here is Traverse's last letter. It will amuse you to lie and read it while I am getting tea, said Mara, taking the paper from her bosom and handing it to Clara, and then placing the stand with the light near the head of her couch that she might see to read it without rising. And while Clara, well pleased, perused and smiled over her lover's letter, Mara Rock laid the cloth and spread a delicate repast of tea, milk-toast, and poached eggs of which she tenderly pressed her visitor to partake. And when Clara was somewhat refreshed by food and rest, she said, Now, dear Mama, you will wish to hear how it happens that I am with you tonight. Not unless you feel quite rested, dear girl. I am rested sufficiently for the purpose. Besides, I am anxious to tell you.  Come, then, Clara, come, then, my darling, said Mara tenderly, holding out her arms. No, no, Mama, you are too little. It would be a sin, said Clara, smiling. But I will sit by you and put my hand in yours, and rest my head against your shoulder while I tell you about it. Come, then, my darling, said Mara Rock. Clara took the offered seat, and when she was fixed to her liking, she commenced and related to her friend a full history of all that had occurred to her at the hidden house. From the moment that she had first crossed its threshold to the hour in which, through the courage and address of Capitola, she was delivered from imminent peril. And now, said Clara, in conclusion, I have come hither in order to get Dr. Williams to make one more appeal for me to the orphan's court. And when it is proved what a traitor my guardian has been to his trust, I have no doubt that the judge will appoint someone else in his place, or at least see that my father's last wish in regard to my residence is carried into effect. Heaven grant it, my child. Heaven grant it. Oh, those lay nores, those lay nores, were there ever in the world before such ruthless villains and accomplished hypocrites, said Mara Rock, clasping her hands in the strength of her emotions. A long time yet they talked together, and then they retired to bed, and still talked until they fell asleep in each other's arms.  Luckily a farmer's cart was just passing the road before the cottage on its way to market. Mara took out her little purse from her pocket, hailed the driver, and expended half her little store, and purchasing two young chickens, some eggs, and some dried peaches, saying to herself, Dear Clara always had a good appetite, and healthy young human nature must live substantially, in spite of all its little heartaches. While Mara was preparing the chicken for the gridiron, the door at the foot of the stairs opened, and Clara came in, looking after her night's rest, as fresh as a rose-bed. What, up with the sun, my darling, said Mara, going to meet her. Yes, Mama.  But you must let me help you, Mama. See, I will set the table and make the toast. Oh, Miss Clara. Yes, I will. I have been ill-used and made miserable. And now you must pet me, Mama, and let me have my own way, and help you to cook our little meals, and to make the house tidy. And afterward, to work those buttonholes in the shirts you were spoiling your gentle eyes over last night. Oh, if they will only let me stay here with you and be at peace, we shall be very happy together. You and I, said Clara, as she drew out the little table and laid the cloth. My dear child, may the Lord make you as happy as your sweet affection would make me, said Mara. We can work for our living together, continued Clara, as she gaily flitted about from the dresser to the table, placing the cups and saucers and plates. You can sew the seams and do the plain hemming, and I can work the buttonholes and stitch the bosoms, collars, and wristbands.  We'd drive a thriving business, Mama, I assure you, said Clara, as she sat down on a low stool at the hearth, and began to toast the bread. I trust in heaven that it will never come to that with you, my dear. Why, why, Mama, why should I not taste of toil and care, as well as others a thousand times better than myself? Why should I not work as well as you and Traverse, Mama? I stand upon the broad platform of human rights, and I say I have just as good a right to work as others, said Clara, with a pretty assumption of obstancy, as she placed the plate of toast upon the board. Doubtless, dear Clara, you may play at work just as much as you please, but heaven forbid you should ever have to work at work, replied Mrs. Rock, as she placed the coffee pot and the dish of broiled chicken on the table. Why, Mama, I do not think that is a good prayer at all, that is a wicked proud prayer, Mrs. Mara Rock. Why, shouldn't your daughter really toil as well as other people's daughters? I'd like to be informed, said Clara, mockingly, as they both took their seats at the table. I think, dear Clara, that you must have contracted some of your eccentric little friend Capitola's ways from putting on her habit. I never before saw you in such gay spirits, said Mrs. Rock, as she poured out the coffee. Oh, Mama, it is but the glad rebound of the freed bird. I am so glad to have escaped from that dark prison of the hidden house and to be here with you. But tell me, Mama, is my old home occupied? No, my dear, no tenant has been found for it. The property is in the hands of an agent to let, but the house remains quite vacant and deserted. Why is that, asked Clara? Why, my love, for the strangest reason. The foolish country people say that since the doctor's death the place has been haunted. Haunted? Yes, my dear, so the foolish people say, and they get wiser ones to believe them. What exactly do they say? I hope—I hope they do not trifle with my dear father's honoured name and memory. Oh, no, my darling, no. But they say that although the house is quite empty and deserted by the living, strange sights and sounds are heard and seen by passersby at night. Lights appear at the upper windows from which pale faces look out. How very strange, said Clara. Yes, my dear, and these stories have gained such credence that no one can be found to take the house. So much the better, dear mama, for if the new judge of the orphan's court should give a decision in our favour, as he must when he hears the evidence—old and new—you and I can move right into it and need not then enter the shirt-making line of business. Heaven grant it, my dear, but now, Clara, my love, we must lose no time in seeing Dr. Williams, lest your guardian should pursue you here and give you fresh trouble. Clara assented to this, and they immediately arose from the table, cleared away the service, put the room in order, and went upstairs to put on their bonnets. Mrs. Rock lending Clara her own best bonna and shawl. When they were quite ready, they locked up the house and set out for the town. It was a bright, frosty, invigorating winter's morning, and the two friends walked rapidly until they reached Dr. Williams' house. The kind old man was at home, and was much surprised and pleased to see his visitors. He invited them into his parlor, and when he had heard their story, he said, This is a much more serious affair than the other. We must employ counsel. Witnesses must be brought from the neighborhood of the hidden house. You are aware that the late Judge of the Orphan's Court has been appointed to a high office under the government at Washington. The man that has taken his place is a person of sound integrity who will do his duty. It remains only for us to prove the justice of our case to his satisfaction, and all will be well. Oh, I trust in heaven that it will be, said Mara fervently. You too must stay in my house until the affair is decided. You might possibly be safe from real injury, but you could not be free from molestation in your unprotected condition at the cottage, said Dr. Williams. Clara warmly expressed her thanks. You had better go home now and pack up what you wish to bring, and put out the fire, and close up the house and come here immediately. In the meantime, I will see your dear father's solicitor, and be ready with my report by the time you get back, said Dr. Williams, promptly taking his hat to go. Mrs. Rock and Clara set out for the cottage, which they soon reached. Throwing off her bonnet and shawl, Clara said, Now, Mama, the very first thing I shall do will be to write to Traverse, so that we can send the letter by today's mail, and set his mind at rest. I shall simply tell him that our mutual letters have failed to reach their destinations, but that I am now on a visit to you, and that while I remain here, nothing can interrupt our correspondence. I shall not speak of the coming suit until we see how it will end. Mrs. Rock approved this plan, and placed writing materials on the table, and while the matron employed herself in closing up the rooms, packing up what was needful to take with them to the doctors, and putting out the fire, Clara row and sealed her letter. They then put on their bonnets, locked up the house, and set out. They called at the post office just in time to mail their letter, and they reached the doctor's house just as he himself walked up to the door, accompanied by the lawyer. The latter greeted the daughter of his old client and her friend, and they all went into the house together. In the doctor's study the whole subject of Clara's flight and its occasion was talked over, and the lawyer agreed to commence proceedings immediately. End of chapter forty-one.