Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 November 1886 — NORA’S STORY. [ARTICLE]

NORA’S STORY.

BY CLIO STANLEY.

The melancholy days of which poets sing had come to earth, and in truth they were the saddest of the year. All that summer the world had seemed a sunny place, made for love and romance. One'aay after another had been ushered in like a sweet guest, sure of approval; and the nights closing over them had made them beautiful memories. “Who could be anything but happy?” I had asked myself the question again and again; now I laughed bitterly at the thought of any lasting happiness coming to me. I had spent three months at this old farmhouse among the mountains, gaining strength with every day, until, when I looked at my own face in ‘ the glass, it seemed like a new face. Years ago I had been called “lovely Nora,” but since 1 had been poor, and worked for my living, the roses had faded in my cheeks, the light had died in my once laughing eyes, and loveliness had chased away the smiles. But this summer I had found new friends, and all the world had blossomed again. I remember so well that day on the hillBide, when, tired with a long ramble, I had thrown myself down on a grassy ledge, and sat looking off over the quiet valley, thinking that I was glad to have health and strength again, even to spend it in downright hard work. Suddenly there came from out the shadow of the great oaks the figure of a man. Brown and travel-stained, yetyith a frank, honest expression that won him a friend at once. “It is five years, and I am here!” he said, grayely, coming up to me and holding out both his hands. “Five years?” I said, looking up with curiosity. “I don’t think I could forget a friend in that time. I am quite sure we are strangers.” His face crimsoned and a sterner look came over it. “Did I not promise you I would come with or without a fortune? We Shall have to wait for the fortune, but we surely are the best friends, Clara?” “You have made a mistake,” I stammered, “I am not Clara, but Nora.” He looked amazed. I knew I was looking like a little goose! “If it was Clara Reed you expected to see, Others have made the same mistake; they say I look as she did five years ago; she is really my cousin, you know, only—- “ Only what?” It was humiliating, but it must be said. “Only our uncle left all the money to Clara, when he died, and —ice have not been the best friends.” And once morel turned away. But gently he laid a detaining hand on my arm. “This then is ‘lovely Nora?’ Pardon me, but I have often heard your uncle call you that. But I thought you were the heiress.” ' “I thought so, too,” I faltered; “but Clara came—and saw and conquered. ” And I tried to smile. “And you were left out in the cold? “It did seem pretty cold when those I had thought my friends dropped off one by one, but I have found better ones since, and I am quite happy.” Once more I turned aw r av. • But he hastened along the little path that was hardly wide enough for two, and, taking my basket, said; “If you are Clara’s cousin we must be friends at least. Your uncle once asked mo to his house to meet you, so you will not refuse my friendship now?” “Your friendship? Oh, no! I have not so many friends that I can refuse one.” So he carried my basket, and began to tell me the story of his travels as we wont back to the old farm-house. I left him at the door and ran up to my room to dress for tea. That evening I heard marvelous stories of adventure, and felt almost as if I myself had been half-w r ay round the world. The next morning Clara came, and Robert Hervey was quite the devoted lover she expected. Still there were times when we were all together in the little world of cool green shadow’s on the mountain-side, and I could listen to the pleasant stories he told of faroff lands and people, forgetting time and place, until Clara would say: “I never could go into raptures over things, so don’t expect it, Robert! I really don’t see how Nora manages to get up so much enthusiasm. ” And then I would blush guiltily and go away, because I knew in my own heart that it was his voice and kind glance that made the stories so charming. One day when Clara had been teasing me, and had driven me almost to tears, she followed me to my room, and threw herself down in the easiest chair. “So you really think he is nice, Nora? What would you give to be in my place?” “Clara,” I said indignantly, “how dare you insult me?” “My dear child, if you call that an insult to . offer you something you are dying to have, you must have a strange imagination.” “It is an insult!” I cried. “How dare you say it?” “Rubbish, my dear! I may as well tell you that I don’t intend to marry him! He is altogether too conceited for a poor ma n #nd I think my money will bring me some,

one more to my taste. The truth is I have outgrown him since he went away, and I told him so this afternoon!” “Clara, you are certainly beside yourself! You could not outgrow Robert Hervey in a lifetime!” “You may think so,” she said quickly; “but even so, I don’t want a superior being foi a husband, who will expect me to look up to him all my life, take my opinions at his hands, and have none of my ow n. It may suit you—but it doesn’t suit me!” “And you have told him this?” I said. “Not in so many words; but I said I was quite sure we were not suited to each other, and, in fact, I thought you might suit him better.” We had not felt much love for each other since uncle died; but the little kind feeling I had tried to cherish was utterly destroyed by that speech. “I shall leave here to-morrow,” I said, quietly, “and I hope I may never see your face again. ” Clara laughed—a horrid, mocking laugh —which rang in my ears for many a day. “You don’t half appreciate my generosity’, I fear, Nora.” “Leave my room, please.” “Then you will really go? Well, I have done what I could for you.” I left the next morning, without bidding any of my friends good-by. I was too angry and heart-sore to want to see any one, least of all Robert Hervey. After that the days were gloomy enough. I plunged eagerly into work, thinking thus to quiet my resAless heart, but work never seemed so hard before. Sometimes I was persuaded to go out, trying in society to find recreation, but in vain; the gayest words held a sting for me, and pleasant smiles only called back to my memory a brown-bearded face and laughing eyes that had looked down into mine. And so a winter passed away, and I felt myself growing old very’ fast. And constantly Robert llervey’s face was before me, and his voice, like music, beside me, until I became ill, and after that 1 knew’ nothing for six long, weary weeks. One night I woke and knew that I was in a strange place, with surroundings that were not my own, yet seemed to be half known to me. I murmured something about school, and a soft hand touched mine, and warm fingers closed about my own. I turned my head slowly, to meet a gentle, loving face, w’ith such a winning look in the eyes that it brought tears to my own to see it. “Where am I?” I whispered, faintly, for I found when I tried to speak I had not much strength. “With friends who love you,” a voice whispered back; “but you must sleep now’ and not think!” And much to my surprise I found myself obedient as a little child. I only said, softly, “Don’t go away.” And then I Blept such a sweet, refreshing sleep that when morning came I felt as if I could stand securely on my feet again, if I were tp get up. The beautiful girl who had been bv me when I first woke was 'with me again, but would only say she was a sister of one of my pupils, and I must be good and not ask questions until I could get up. Her gay, laughing stories charmed me, and I grew stronger every day, until one morning she said I was to be dressed, and try a great sleepy-hollow chair which had been brought into my room. “Andthen,” she said, “you shall see your pupil, and you will ijnd out who I am.” And she Dent down to kiss me on my cheek. “I don’t care now,” I said, quickly. “My curiosity is all gone.” But when I was dressed and put into the great chair, and she left me to send my little scholar in, I found I was still a little curious. There were many among them I had been fond of; who could it be so fond of mo? A step behind me, and a voice said, “Nora!” Oh, whose voice was it! It thrilled me with a pleasure that was almost pain. “Nora! lovely Nora!” And some one came round to the side of my chair and took my hand. I opened my eyes, for I had closed them at the first sound of that voice, and saw Robert Hervey standing before me. “Mr. Hervey! how came you here?” remembering everthing with a rosy blush; “and—where is my little scholar?” “Not so little, Nora; I stand six feet in my stockings; but truly your scholar. Ah, many the sweet lessons I learned of you on the mountain-side; lessons of hope and trust and patience; best of all, lessons of love, Nora. And now will you take me for your scholar for life?” “Oh! and Clara;” it was all I could say. A rush of happy tears drowned every other w’ord. “Do not speak of her, Nora. Only tell me, are you glad to see me?” “Glad? Oh, yes, ho ffiad!” But then I began to wonder again where I was. I think I must have been faint for an instant, for I found his sister beside me holding a glass of water to my lips. “Yes,” fie said, when she tried to explain; “it is mv dear sister Rose, who came here when I found you ill, turned my bachelor apartment into a sort of sanctuary, and turned me out. But when I knew you were well, I could not stay away.” Rose had taken one hand in her gentle clasp, and I put Che other out to him. “Is it mine?” he said, softly. But I only held his hand close and smiled. Would all the world tempt me to let it go! It is only one short week since ho came, but it seems like a long dream of joy. Thank God, it is a reality! Clara is welcome now to the fortune that should have been mine. I have my fortune here.