In a dim corner stood Mr. Clark’s easy-chair with the back toward me. I approached it and leaned over. There sat the curate exactly as he had the morning of his wife’s death, pale, tearless, the most touching picture of grief that I ever saw.
I looked around for the cause. Where was Cora, and her father in this state? I ran to her room; it was empty. Into the kitchen; the servant sat moping by a dresser. She did not know what had come over her master, or where Miss Cora was. He had not spoken a word or eaten a mouthful since she went out.
Sick at heart, I went back to the parlor, and, kneeling by the good man, took his hand in mine.
“Speak to me!” I said; “oh, speak—what has happened? Why are you thus?”
He looked on me as he had done that first day in his grief, laid his hand on my head, and burst into tears. He did not speak, but put one hand into his bosom, took out a letter and attempted to unfold it. But his poor hands shook so nervously that the paper only rattled in his grasp.
With painful forebodings I took it from his hand. I did not read it all, for a sickness of heart came over and blinded me; but enough was plain; Cora Clark, my little Cora had left her father’s house to be married—so she wrote—and her companion—who was he?
George Irving left Clare Hall on the very night that letter was written. She mentioned no names, but this was a part that all might read.
Mr. Clark looked wearily at me as I read the letter. His lips moved, and he said in a meek, broken-hearted voice,
“What can we do, Zana?”
“We will find her—love her—take her home again,” I said. “Cora shall not remain with this villain, even as his wife!”