BOOK THE THIRD.
At the most northern apex of Great Britain there is a quaint village called Dunscansby Head. The turbulent waters of Pentland Firth wash the beach, along which are scattered a few simple huts inhabited principally by fishermen’s families. No more wild or lonely spot could well be imagined. It seems almost shut off from the entire world, and a place which none but those who wished to escape from all society would have chosen. One would be as completely hidden as though buried forever, and here Victoria had brought Roger accompanied by Adam, and a stout Scotch woman whom she had picked up as she passed through Scotland.
Why Victoria had chosen this particular spot she could not have explained if she had been questioned. When it had been decided that she should take Roger away—that she must separate from Andrew perhaps for all time—she had a desire to seek some place far removed from her home—and those who were so dear to her—a place where she might live unknown, and where nobody knew her. The doctor had said that a sea-voyage might be beneficial to Roger. Victoria grasped at the suggestion with eagerness. With the ocean between her and her love, she might find peace, so hurriedly gathering a few necessary articles together, she set out for New York, bound upon a journey to where she knew not. The doctor accompanied her at Andrew’s urgent request. The idea of the tenderly-nurtured woman—whose every wish had been gratified almost before it was spoken—going out into the world with an imbecile, and a tongueless servant as her only companions, was gall and wormwood to the man who knewthat his sin was the cause of her banishment. As his bodily health improved his mind became stronger and more active, and he would sit by the window looking out over his fair lands—fair no longer to him because the one who had made them enjoyable was about to leave them, and perhaps forever. If Victoria entered the room his eyes followed her about hungrily. Often when she passed near him he would secretly catch her gown and press it to his lips. If she turned suddenly toward him as if about to speak, she only saw him stolidly gazing out the window, seemingly unconscious of her presence.
This, too, was a bitter, trying time for her. Another burden had been laid upon her already overtaxed shoulders. The doctor objected to little Mary accompanying her. Much as she rebelled at the thought of parting with her child, she acknowledged the doctor’s superior wisdom in ordering Mary’s detention. The child was old beyond her years, her memory was wonderfully retentive. If Victoria persisted in taking her she must expect to be asked very embarrassing questions as the child grew. Now, if left behind, and the subject never referred to, the old man she had seen in the gabled room would soon fade from her memory. Not so if she was brought into daily contact with him as she must necessarily be if she accompanied Victoria.
Another thing the doctor argued—and here he showed fine diplomacy—was Andrew’s loneliness if bereft of all his loved ones. The doctor pictured the long winter days when Andrew would see no cheering faces. The still longer nights when his chamber would be empty, and no restless little figure tumbling in its crib, or a sweet, shrill voice shouting for a drink of water. Victoria could not withstand this last plea. The thought of brightening Andrew’s loneliness by sacrificing her own pleasure tempered her keen anguish at leaving this dear bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh, and so one day when Andrew had come in from his first short walk, she said with a smile in which there was no shadow of the fierce pain at her heart: “I am going to leave our sunbeam with you, Andrew. She is such a chatterbox, and will enliven the long winter days, and the little crib beside your bed will not be empty when you waken in the night.”
Andrew stretched out his hands and drew Victoria to him. “God bless you,” he said reverently. “God watch over and protect you, but He will. You are of His chosen ones. No harm can ever come to such as you. I have longed to keep Mary, but I would not broach the subject and ask this sacrifice of you. It would have been too presuming on my part, but now, now that you have offered how gladly do I accept. The touch of her baby fingers will keep me from all sin. The sound of her sweet voice will heal the canker which seems eating into my heart. Again I say God bless you Victoria.”
He had put her from him without a caress. She had been sacred to him from the day when against his will he had chosen liberty without her, to prison bars with the occasional light of her face to cheer him; and then he slowly ascended the stairs to the gabled room where Roger sat laughing at the queer antics of Adam, who was creeping about the room on all fours, making noises in imitation of a dog, cat, sheep, cow, or anything he happened to think of.
“Good, Adam,” cried the imbecile clapping his hands, “nice Adam, do it again, my Adam.” He turned when he heard Andrew’s footsteps, and a troubled look came over his face. “Go away,” he whined. “You will make Adam stop. Go away, I tell you, you ain’t wanted here.”
Andrew stood sadly gazing at the mental wreck before him. How gladly now would he welcome the light of returning reason in that face which he had so hated. With what joy would he bring light to those darkened eyes if he only had the power.
Roger was beating the air with his hands. His hearing was most acute, and he knew that Andrew still lingered. “Adam,” he called, “put that thing out. I can hear it breathe; it annoys me.”
Andrew put out his hand and touched his brother. “My poor Roger,” he said. “Don’t you know my voice? cannot you remember brother Andrew?”
Again the troubled expression crossed the imbecile’s face, but only for a moment; then he raised his hand as if to strike at something. “Go away,” he cried. “Adam won’t be a cat so long as you stay. Cry like a cat, again, Adam,” and as Adam set up a series of meowswhich made Roger shout with glee, Andrew turned sadly and left the room. As he entered his study he saw his chair in its accustomed place before the writingdesk. He threw himself into it and bowing his head upon the desk he wept long and sorrowfully. No need for this man to go before a jury to receive sentence. Every hour his punishment hung heavier upon him; every moment his conscience lashed him with greater fury, until, as now, he was prone to cry: “Enough, my God! enough!”
As the time came for Victoria’s departure he tried to cast aside the gloom which depressed him, and appear cheerful so as not to add one straw to the brave woman’s burden. He assisted the doctor to remove Roger from the house at night when all was quiet. The doctor had given his patient a strong opiate, so that he would not attract notice by crying out, and himself acting as driver, with Andrew and Adam caring for Roger, he drove twenty miles to an out of the way station, there to await the coming of Victoria.
The next night Andrew drove home alone, and when Victoria bade him good-bye at the station the following day, the lookers on had not a suspicion of the tragedy overshadowing the fair, self-possessed woman, who shook her husband’s hand so calmly, and who pressed only one kiss on the soft cheek of her baby girl with an almost indifferent air. Nor had these same people any thought save that of envy, for the sad-eyed, stern-faced man, who stood watching the train bearing out of his sight perhaps forever, the being who had been all the world to him for so many years. To those about him he was the richest man for miles around; he had just recovered from an illness which would have killed any ordinary man, and therefore, as one person said—looking after Andrew as he strode from the station with Mary perched upon his shoulder: “That’s the luckiest man in Virginia. Everything he touches turns to gold. He has had more positions of trust offered him than any other man in the country. A word from him carries more weight than as if the Governor had spoken. Everybody envies him.” But if that man could have seen the object of his envy a few moments later, when, after escaping from the prying eyes of people, he was slowly driving homeward, there would have been nothing but pity in his heart forthe wretched man. He had taken Mary upon his knee, and had buried his face in her sunny curls. For a few moments he said nothing; his grief was too deep for words; while Mary, with a grave air far beyond her years, patted his head with her soft hand. She had not shed a tear at parting with her mother. Victoria had had a long talk with her the night before, and Mary felt the importance of her charge. Mamma had told her she must not cry because if she did papa would get sick again. That everything funny she saw during the day she must tell papa at night so as to cheer him. That she must never do anything to annoy him. That she must try to be his little comfort until mamma returned, which Mary reasoned would be to-morrow. She stroked the hair back from her father’s hot throbbing temple, and her touch soothed him. He hugged her closer, and thought how wise Victoria had been to leave him this jewel; this priceless pearl.
“Love me hard, little one,” he said, trying to master his emotion. “Papa has need of all your love. He is sick unto death.”
“But you won’t get any sicker if I don’t cry, will you?” queried Mary, peering anxiously in her father’s face. “I did want to cry awful bad when mamma kissed me, and a heap of gullops came up in my throat, and I thought I’d never get ’em all down again. What makes gullops come up in my throat, papa? Do you have them?”
“Sometimes, dear child,” replied Andrew, smiling at Mary’s quaint question. “Where did you hear that expression?”
“Oh, from old Chloe, papa. Whenever any of the pickininys gets choked or anything, she always goes for them with her shoes, and cracks them on the back, and says: ‘Dere’s dat chile gullopin’ again. Some day he’ll snuffocate, suah.’”
Andrew laughed and kissed the bright winsome face of his child, while again he thought of Victoria’s wisdom in leaving to him her treasure. Ah, what watchful care would he take of her, so that when the right time should come, he might place her in Victoria’s arms and say: “This link, which has bound us, has not been broken, only unclasped. Take it, that once more may we be united.”
Meanwhile Victoria sat like a statue, her dry eyes looking out upon the bleak hills, and gray overcast sky, as the train sped swiftly on. To her excited fancy all nature mourned at her departure, and somehow the thought comforted her. If the sun had smiled, and the birds had sung, she could not have borne it. She had drained her cup of sorrow to the last dregs. One more drop, and she would have succumbed. She had a wild longing at the last moment to throw her arms around Andrew’s neck before all the crowd, and beg him to confess right there and then, so that she might not leave him, but stay and defy the world for his sake. Anything, however dreadful, was better than this separation, which seemed to be tearing her heart from her body; but she looked at Mary and forbore. “For her dear name,” she whispered, and then her face, wearing a smile, her heart burning like a volcano, she stepped aboard the car, and was borne away from those she loved so passionately to where stern duty awaited her.
Upon meeting the doctor and his companions she was the same self-possessed woman who had parted from Andrew. No tears, no mention of regrets. She fixed the pillows for Roger with a deft hand which did not shake or tremble. The doctor marveled as he watched her. “Made to endure,” he murmured, “made to endure.”
The party traveled leisurely until they reached New York, and after the doctor had placed them upon the best packet-ship bound for England, he turned his face toward home.
“Be good to my loved ones,” were Victoria’s parting words. “Make your home with Andrew. It will cheer him.”
“I will,” replied the doctor. “Keep a brave heart, Mrs. Willing. Remember the same God watches over us all.”
Upon reaching England Victoria sought a quiet villa in the suburbs of London, where she hoped to be free from prying eyes. She engaged two maid servants, who seemed to be quite steady, and not inclined to gossip; and a man of all work, deaf apparently to anything going on around him, but alert to every order given him by his mistress. A model English servant. Here Victoria lived in absolute retirement for nearly a year.She was not unhappy. The consciousness of having done her duty toward the poor imbecile—who now clung to her more tenaciously than he had ever done to Adam—served to sweeten her life. Then she did not forget the poor and unhappy beings who were all about her. Her health demanded exercise, and every day, rain or shine, she drove about the city. Usually she took Roger with her, for although he could not see, he delighted in the rapid motion of the carriage, and was never so quiet or tractable as when riding with his hand clasping Victoria’s.
In her drives Victoria saw much of the squalid misery existing among the poor of London. Her heart often bled as she looked upon these scenes, and she resolved that in some way she must contribute her share toward helping her lowly, unfortunate sisters. Especially was she interested in the little children, whose wan poverty-lined faces, made prematurely old looking by hunger, appealed to her heart, and carried her memory back to old Virginia, and a sweet, happy face which had never known hunger or care. To think with Victoria was to act. When her plans became settled in her mind she went to her bankers, and told them that she wished to draw on Mr. Andrew Willing for ten thousand pounds. It was a large amount, and naturally they refused to accommodate her until they had first heard from Mr. Willing. “Communicate with him at once,” she said, with a smile. “I will call for the answer in a month.” She had no fears as to what the answer would be. She knew well that Andrew would send her the last penny of his fortune, and never ask what disposal she meant to make of it; so at the expiration of a month she walked into the bank with a confident air, and smiled as the banker deferentially handed her a letter which read: “Honor a draft for any sum of money Mrs. Willing chooses to ask for.”
A week from that time a site had been chosen, and ground broken for destitute, crippled and orphaned children.
It had been agreed between Andrew and herself that they would not correspond. Both felt that such a barrier was needed. So much might be said on paper; but every day Victoria wrote a few words to Mary, sometimes enclosing a line to the doctor; and the foreignmail which left England twice a month, never failed to have among its letters a bulky package addressed to Andrew Willing. Victoria thought best to address all letters in Andrew’s name, so as to allay all suspicion which might arise in the mind of the village postmaster.
Of course, every gossip in the town had his or her opinion as to the queer doings at “The Five Gables.” Some of the more fertile minded averred that Andrew’s illness had made him mildly insane, except at times, when he would become furious, and in one of these spells he had tried to kill his wife, therefore fearing for her life she had fled to England where she was living in close retirement with her mother. What more natural, but why had she left her child behind to be perhaps killed by the maniac in one of his spells? This question was a puzzler to the good people, who felt as if some secret was being withheld from them which if told would make a dainty morsel to chew upon and roll about on their tongues until thoroughly masticated; and naturally Andrew’s neighbors—if they could be called such, the nearest house being a full half-mile away—agreed that they were shamefully imposed upon. The fact of the doctor having taken up his residence at “The Five Gables,” lent still further credence to the story of Andrew’s insanity, and he was looked upon as a dangerous man.
The doctor was obliged to parry many skillfully worded questions from his patients, who suddenly evinced a warm interest in his well-being, asking him “if he were not afraid to live in the same house with Mr. Willing, whom rumor said was becoming more dangerous every day, and who had actually thrown a plate at Pete’s head just because the soup was not hot enough.”
The doctor felt a keen pleasure in mystifying his questioners, who concluded after a time that they had made no headway in solving the secret; so like all other mysteries this too sank into the background, and gave place to the latest scandal, until one day it was suddenly revived by a person whose veracity had never been questioned, and who swore that having occasion to pass “The Five Gables” at the solemn midnight hour, he had been astonished, almost paralyzed, when he saw the western gable brilliantly lighted up and forms passingto and fro, while the weird sound of a violin—“played by no human hand he could swear”—floated out to his ears on the still evening air.
This story caused the wildest excitement among the villagers, who gathered in little knots at the street corners, or sat around on sugar barrels in the principal grocery, discussing this new feature which was the most startling of anything so far connected with the mystery of “The House of Five Gables.” Night was welcomed eagerly, and for hours after darkness fell, the eyes of the whole population were turned toward the house way up on the high cliff. Even the huge comet which was then visible, and which was an object of fear and terror to most of the villiagers, sank into insignificance beside this ghostly inhabitant of the western gable, in the house where so many mysteries were being concealed.
The story of the beautiful slave girl who had held court in that same gable more than fifty years ago, was again revived by old residents, who shook their gray heads and wagged their toothless jaws, while they predicted that some dreadful evil was about to befall the present owner, when ghosts which had lain quiet for half a century came back to revel in the haunts they had once inhabited. Several lights could be seen in the lower part of the house, but the western gable was still shrouded in darkness. As the night wore on the lights gradually disappeared, usually heralded by some urchin more vigilant than the rest, who would shout: “There goes one. Only three more now to be put out,” and finally as the last one disappeared, everybody watched with bated breath, as they waited to see what would happen next. At last a brilliant light shown out like a meteor from the western gable. A sigh went up from the watching people, interrupted for one brief moment by a diminutive urchin of an enquiring turn of mind, who had climbed a tall post to be nearer the exciting spectacle, and who, as the bright light shot out—his footing being insecure—fell with a howl upon the heads of those beneath him, where he was caught by his enraged father, and after a spanking—administered heartily and accompanied by the satisfied grunts of those most interested—was thrust out of sight behind his mother’s skirts, where smothered sobs and surreptitiouskicks, told of the spirit not having been entirely quelled, while between sobs could be heard a small voice crying piteously “to be let to see the ghost.”
Superstition had thoroughly taken hold of every one present, and the women would clutch each other by the arm as a form passed between the window and the light, while they whispered: “There she is now! Can’t you see her long black hair?”
As they were standing fully fifty rods from the house, the question would seem rather superfluous unless one was gifted with eyesight of telescopic power, but to their excited fancy the form of Bella, as they had heard of her, was now reproduced by this specter, and one person described her as being dressed in white loose garments, waving her arms wildly as she passed back and forth; while another solemnly averred that the ghost had simply a blanket wound around her in Indian fashion, and wore feathers in her hair.
At last a man stepped out from the excited mass, and boldly declared, “Ghost, or no ghost,” he would volunteer to go up to “The Gables,” and arouse its inmates and offer his services to allay the specter. A low rumble of approval greeted this brave declaration, but suddenly a woman darted from the crowd and threw herself upon him. “Thou art daft, mon,” she cried. “Wou’dst thee leave the childer wi’out a faäther, and me a widdy? Let Maister Willin’ tak’ care o’ his spooks, hissen, and thee abide here wi’ we uns. If thou goo’st I’ll never see thee mo’ore.”
“Shut up thine idle croakin’, woman,” rejoined the man, angrily unclasping her clinging arms. “I war a fighter i’ Lancashire, afraid o’ nothin’, an’ wi’ anither gude mon to help, I’ll doon tha spook.”
“I’m with you,” spoke a voice, and a brawny fellow with muscles like iron, and sledge-hammer fists, joined the bragging Englishman.
The crowd watched these two as they slowly climbed the cliff, until the darkness hid their forms, and then in groups of three or four they discussed the probability of their companions’ safe return; while the wife of the Englishman was sobbing bitterly a little way apart, and was looked upon as already a widow, and the two mites clinging to her skirts as orphans.
“I mind Tom Butts, who chased a wild cat into themountains,” said a woman in a sepulchral whisper, which was plainly heard by “the widow.” “It led him on and on, till finally it turned into a giant man, over seven feet tall, and Tom never come back.”
A prolonged wail from the weeping “widow” stopped further reminiscences, and the woman failed to enlighten her hearers, how it became known if Tom had not returned, that the wild cat had turned into a giant man.
CHAPTER II.
The light still continued to shine from the gabled window. The ghost had not been exorcised as yet, for still the form flitted to and fro, and one man casually remarked “that as ghosts knew everything, it had no doubt been warned of the hostile approach of the Englishman and the brawny blacksmith, and had sent out an evil power to slay them,” and then he facetiously added, “that he wished he had taken his horses to be shod, as he minded to that day. Now the nearest smithy was ten good miles away. Jack would never show up to shoe any more horses.”
Another ear-splitting wail from a gray-haired woman, presumably Jack’s mother, and a chorus of voices crying, “for shame, Joe Bull, to joke over the poor lad. Go away wi’ you for an evil sperrit yoursen’,” caused the would-be joker to slink into the background covered with ignominy.
At last a sound as of returning footsteps down the steep cliff was heard, and a subdued murmur like the hum of bees began to drift through the crowd. Was it Jack and his companion returning? or could it be the evil spirits, who, having destroyed those two brave men, were now bent on wiping out from the land all those who had lent a helping hand toward exposing the ghost of “The Five Gables.”
“Let’s be movin’,” said one woman gathering up her brood in the ample folds of her gown, much as if they had been fagots of wood. “I never war for disturbin’ the poor spooks. Let em trouble them as has a evil conscience. Poor folks like we uns has no use for ghosts.” Her words electrified her hearers, and with one accord they turned to depart. Some with dignity as if the sound of ghosts’ footsteps were an every day occurrence with them; others looking back over their shoulders fearfully trying to penetrate the darkness, and the mystery of those fast advancing footsteps.
“Hoo, hoo,” sounded a voice which seemed to come from the earth underneath their very feet. “Hoo, hoo.”
A nervous negro woman with a cry of “Dey is arter we uns suah. I took dat par o’ stocks’ jes fer fun, good ghos’, I’ll gub em back to missy to-morrow, suah,”—was the cause of a general stampede, and men, women and children, made wild with fear by the woman’s loud yells, stumbled over each other in their frantic efforts to get to a place of safety, but the hurrying feet behind them were coming, were gaining on them, and some of the weaker ones realizing their inability to escape, sank upon their knees and gave themselves up to their dreadful fate with a wail of despair.
“What’s all this bloomin’ row about?” exclaimed a familiar voice much blown from hard running. “Any body’d think the very de’il himsel’ war after thee, folks.”
“Oh! is it thee, my gud mon?” cried the Englishman’s wife with a scream of joy. “We were daft wi’ fear. We thoc’ht the ghosts had swallied thee, an’ war coomin’ down tha brue for tha rest o’ we uns.”
A hearty laugh from the two “brave men” did much toward restoring the courage of the fleeing people, who now turned and crowded around the heroes, eager to hear of their adventures. Many men solemnly shook them by the hand, saying “glad to see thee back again,” as if they had just returned from a long and perilous journey, while the women more curious asked in awe-struck voices: “Wha’ did thee see, Jack? War it really the ghost o’ that yaller gal, Bill?”
“Naw,” sneered the Englishman with a wave of his hand. “We war weel laughed at for meddlin’ wi’ what war none o’ our business. Maister Willin hissen’ ha’ opened thot windie for ti’ luke at t’ comet i’ tha’ sky. He ha’ a telescope brocht fra foreign parts an’ it be woonderfu’. He let us luke at uns, ha Jock?”
“Yes,” said Jack, who seemed quite crestfallen and inclined to hide his head. “Yes, but I had rather found the ghost.”
“Tell us what you seen, Bill?” cried his hearers eagerly.
“Oh, it war’ woonderfu’, I tell thee, woonderfu’. Thee joost luke through a round hole made o’ glass, and thee seeist this thin’ awa’ oop i’ tha sky, like a fiery furnace. Beats thy forge all to nothin’, hey Jock?”
Jack made no answer. He was plainly disgusted with himself for having been made a fool of. The Englishman continued: “An’ wha’ do’est thee think, gude people. Maister Willin’ say’es as how that thin’ has a tail one hundred an’ feefty thousand miles long.”
Several laughed as Bill delivered this speech, and one man said: “I knowed Andrew Willing were daft. Only a man all wrong in the upper story would be sayin’ an’ doin’ such crazy things. The next thing you’ll be tellin’ us Bill, is that the doctor has gone mad, too.”
“It war he as ope’d the dure fer me an’ Jock,” replied Bill, “an’ he near cracked ‘is ’ead i’ two joost laughin’ at hour fuleishness. ‘Jock,’ ’e said, ‘I thought you ’ad more brains nor this. I woonder h’at you. Coom h’up steers, Maister Willin’ don’t make no secret o’ that gabled room. It are open ti respection’, or somethin’ like that ’e said, so we went h’in kind o’ fearfu’ like.”
“I was’ent fearful,” spoke up Jack quickly. “Speak for yourself, Bill.”
“Thee got as white h’as a sheet, mon,” returned Bill excitedly. “Thee was’t afeer’d ti luke aside. Thee nee’r expected ti come out’en theer alive, an’ wi’ a whole skin.”
“Go way with you for a bloody liar,” retorted Jack hotly. “I never was afraid of anything yet.”
“Haa liar his it!” cried Bill, squaring off. “Ca’ me haa liar, do’est thee? Hi’ll teach thee to hinsult thy betters.”
“Come, come; stop your quarreling,” said a man stepping between them. “Don’t you know that Jack could wipe up the earth with you, Bill, if he just wanted to? Why you would be a dead man in two seconds. See, daylight is breaking, and the most of us are chilled through. We’ll have snow before many hours. Let us all go to our homes, and to-night we will meet at the post office, and you can finish your tale.”
Jack had turned away in disdain as Bill squared at him. “Fight that thing,” he muttered, “well I recon as how I want a man to stand up against, not a puppy,” and looking defiantly at the crowd he walked toward his forge, while the others slowly dispersed to their separate homes.
CHAPTER III.
The doctor and Andrew had many a quiet laugh over the ghost of the western gable, and the light still continued to shine as formerly, but nobody disturbed their midnight star-gazing after that; although not a few among the more superstitious inhabitants still looked askance at Andrew whenever he appeared in the village, and some even whispered that he was in league with the evil spirits, and had compelled the doctor to join hands with him, and that the devil himself had been seen walking arm in arm with Andrew on the little balcony under the gabled window, many and many a wild stormy night when neither man or beast hardly dare venture out. Of course, such absurd stories never found their way to either Andrew’s or the doctor’s ears, but Andrew had not failed to observe a change in the general bearing of those whom he chanced to meet, a furtive glance of the eye perhaps, or a sudden crossing to the other side of the street to avoid meeting him face to face; but he was too much engrossed in his own affairs to allow such petty trifles to worry him. He did not wish for any man’s society. The doctor and he lived very comfortably together. The men whom he met in a business way could not complain of any inability on his part in a business transaction. His brain was all right there whatever it might be on other things. His silent, rather morose countenance, was uninviting to would be questioners, and not one among his acquaintances had dared to ask him why Victoria had gone abroad, or why she remained away so long; and he who never bothered over his neighbor’s affairs did not dream of enlightening anybody by volunteering information on a subject in which only himself and Mary were interested. He had no idea of the frequent tea gatherings, where sometimes he and his were the sole topics of conversation. It would hardly have troubled him if he had known, so many weightier subjects filled his mind.
To him the days which brought the foreign mailswere the only ones of all the month worth living for. He always went for the precious freight himself, taking Mary with him. The child had come to know those big envelopes with the funny seals on them, as coming from mamma, and he always allowed her to break the seal, and then as eagerly as the child listened, just so eagerly would he read the dear words, penned by loving fingers which he knew longed to clasp his own. Although addressed to the child, Andrew knew that every word was written for himself, and the endearing expressions were kissed and kissed again, until the paper seemed to him to almost take on life under his caresses. He would be more cheerful for a time after one of these missives came to cheer him, and the doctor hailed the foreign mail as eagerly as either Mary or her father, for it meant a brighter household for a few days at least, and too, the cheering news of Victoria’s good health and evident contentment made glad the doctor’s heart.
It was he who suggested teaching Mary how to print, so that Victoria’s life might be brightened by a letter from her baby girl, written all by herself, with no suggestions or corrections from either him or her father. Mary set about her task willingly, and was indefatigable in her efforts at learning how to spell and print; and it was a wonderful production which one day nearly a year after Victoria’s exile, was given by Mary herself with many charges to the village postmaster, that he put that letter sure in the foreign post-bag, for it was going to her dear mamma who was very lonely way off across the big water.
Victoria, although not unhappy, had many days of longing to hold Mary in her arms. Sometimes she would awaken in the silent night, and put out her hands expecting to clasp the beloved child to her breast, so vivid had been her dreams, but alas, when aroused to full consciousness, when she realized how far away from her was the darling of her heart, then at such times did she rebel, and when morning came the evil spirit within her could only be exorcised by her going to the children’s home, and herself superintending some part being built for Mary’s sake. She always felt better after one of these visits, and every day she wrote accounts of the progression of her work to the little daughter far away,and told her of the little sick and crippled children who were anxiously waiting for the completion of their home, which had been named “The Mary Willing Home for Destitute Orphaned and Crippled Children.”
Victoria’s mail was received through her bankers, and the days on which she might expect letters were always anxious ones to her. The doctor never failed to write a few lines, telling her that all was well with those she loved, and on this particular day she left “The Home” much earlier than usual, and drove around to her bankers, for having read of the arrival of a mail-ship, she was sure there must be mail for her. There was, and a smile of gladness lit up her usually sad face as the old clerk handed her a large bundle of papers, and three bulky letters. “I am especially favored this time,” she said, electrifying the man with that unusual smile. “You do not know, perhaps, what it is to feel that a cruel treacherous ocean separates you from those whom you love.”
Tears stood in the old man’s eyes. The sweet glad smile had awakened sad memories. “But you hope to meet your loved ones alive and well some time, dear lady,” he said so sorrowfully that Victoria looked at him interested. “They have not crossed that boundless ocean, which never brings the loved ones back when once they are upon its waters.”
“Ah, no,” replied Victoria, “I have been spared that, thank God! But you speak as one who has sorrowed. Have you lost many dear ones?”
“All, all! my lady. Five lovely children taken in their innocence before they had known evil. The sixth was spared to me until she grew to womanhood. Last year she too sickened and died, leaving a little flower in her stead, a frail little blossom. Last week my good wife was taken from me; now only the child and I are left.”
Such hopeless resignation was shown in those words, that Victoria felt her eyes moisten. She noticed the threadbare clothes, the worn black tie, the frayed edges to the spotless cuffs. His entire outfit if sold, would not have brought a pound; but the marks of a gentleman were patent in the spotless linen, the well kept nails, the general appearance of the whole man. Victoria had heard of the meager salaries which most bankclerks in England received. Hardly enough to keep body and soul together, and she wondered how she could assist this man without offending his pride. She thought of the little granddaughter. Oh yes, here was a way surely.
“I have a little daughter in America,” she said, “I have not seen her in nearly a year. I love all children for her dear sake. I would like to know your grandchild, perhaps she would cheer and comfort me. Let me have your address. I will call with your permission and take her driving. How old is she?”
“Four years, my lady,” replied the old man, “but she is a frail little thing. I thank you for your kindness. A drive once in a while might do her world’s of good. I don’t have much money to spend on extras like that.” He glanced at his clothing, and Victoria thought she saw a shade of bitterness cross his face.
“I will call at your house after the bank closes this afternoon,” she said, “and take both you and the child for a long drive. What is your address, please?”
“No. 20 Deptford road,” he replied, his eyes glistening with pleasure. “I lodge with a widow named Mrs. Ball. My name is James Catherwood Vale; my little granddaughter’s name is Dora.”
Victoria nearly dropped the pencil and paper from her hand, while she stared at the unconscious face before her. James Catherwood Vale! the name of her own father’s brother who had been disinherited because he had married a governess. Could this be he? Catherwood had been the maiden name of her paternal grandmother, Dora Catherwood. Dora Vale, her cousin, was the one who should inherit her own little fortune which she had forfeited by marrying Roger. Now, this man, James Catherwood Vale, had a granddaughter named Dora. How strangely like a fairy tale if this should indeed prove her uncle.
These thoughts flashed through her mind with lightening rapidity, while she regained her composure, and jotted down the address he had given her.
“I will surely call for you,” she said, holding out her hand cordially; and as James Vale clasped it in his, he wondered why this strange lady should take this sudden interest in him and his.
He had seen her come in and go out of the bankmany times within the past year. He had even handed her the mail more times than one, and he had also wondered what great sorrow could have befallen her, for never until to-day, had he seen a smile upon the sad face. A smile which transformed it into almost angelic beauty.
As Victoria entered her carriage she told the driver to take Oxford street, and drive to Hyde Park. She did not wish to go home for a while where Roger was waiting, with an avalanche of questions the moment she came in, and who would have to be amused for hours perhaps, so that she might not have a moment for quiet thought. She also wanted to read her letters, and as she settled herself among the cushions of her carriage, she thought: “I hope this man may prove to be my uncle, and the little one my cousin. I shall not feel quite so isolated.”
For the first time since receiving her mail she glanced at the different handwritings. “Two from the doctor,” she said, “and, what is this? Oh, I believe the dear child has written to me all by herself. None but a child directed this envelope.” With eager fingers she tore the envelope apart, and after glancing at the heading of the letter pressed it to her lips, and kissed the queer, ill-formed letters again and again. “Ah, how precious,” she murmured, “my baby’s fingers have become tired and weary over this task, but for mamma’s sake they have kept on.” She held the paper from her and gazed at it with a world of love in her eyes. “There is not money enough in all England to buy this little scrap of paper,” she cried, “no, nor in the world.”
When she became calmer she began to read the letter aloud. She loved to hear her voice pronounce the misspelled words, printed by loving fingers, and which came as messengers of peace to the tired starved heart, which had longed, oh so many times, to feel the touch of those baby hands. The letter was characteristic of the child, and Victoria laughed and cried by turns as she read: “My deer’est and truly butyful’est Mamma Wont you be s’prised when you get this well I reken you wil’ papa and uncel doctor has teeched me to print and spel’ but I can print better than I can spel’ papa sey I must rite this al’ bi miself for you wil’ think mor’ of it if he don’tcor’ect it wil’ you must rite in your next and let me no uncel docter sey I’l do beter next tim’ but I like it O mamma before I forget to tel’ you I must tel’ you Jenny my pretty pony has a little baby the swe’test thing you ever saw with long leggs as long as Jennys Jenny keeps liking it al’ the tim’ al’ over with her tong I’m not sure tung is spel’ rite but I mus’ not ask papa for he wil’ not help me if I do for he sed he wood not and he alwa’s dus as he sey O mamma pete has mar’id the gurl who puts on my sho’s and stokings They went off one da’ and when they com’ ba’k petes mama gave him such a beeting that Rosa went criing to papa and sed they got marid so they did and papa laffed and gave them five dollars apece and Rosa sey she’d get marid ev’ry day for five dol’ars and pete sey he get drub’ed every day to for five dol’ars so I spose they ar’ hapy O mamma aint tomoro’ a long ways off I thou’t you wood be home by tomoro’ but it seems as if ther’ had bin a good many tomorows sinc’ you went away’ Flora my dol’ has met with a axident and uncel doctor has had to ampertate her rite leg and tak’ out her rite ey’ wich becom’ brok’ nobodi no’s how I never did care mutch for Flora so I did not even shed a tear al’ the rest of my children ar’e doing well thank you except jonny jump up who has the meesels and Tina’ who has slow consumson wich uncel doctor sey will be her deth som’ day’ O mamma papa do’se not cri so mutch as he did w’en you first went awa he used to hug me so tite he hurt me and then he wood cri and make me feal bad to but I did not cri for you told me I mus’ not I have been reel good wen nite comes and I go to bed papa alwa’s tel’s Rosa he wil’ undres’ me and then we have such fun papa and me and then he razes the blind w’en he le’ves me so I can look at the stars in the sky for he sey the same stars ar’ shining upon my mamma way off over the water and then I go to sleep W’en ar’ you coming home mamma I want to see you and so doos papa for I asked him one da’ and he sed he wood lose ha’f of his life to take your dear hands in his I lov’ papa derely and I lov’ you and then I lov’ uncel doctor who likes to have me cal’ him uncel for he has not got any litle gurl but me my hare is down to my waste in long curls and Rosa scolds caus’ she has to curl it every morning but papa makes her come home soon deerestand most lovely mamma to papa and me I wil’ rite another leter soon from your duty full dauter mary vale willing.”
Victoria did not read this continuously as it was written. She often stopped to kiss some quaintly spelled word, which reminded her so much of the writer. Her tears flowed fast as she read the words of Andrew, which he had not dreamed his child would remember and repeat. Ah, how he loved her, and how she loved him, even if he had sinned. He had repented, and every day he was atoning for that sin. She kissed the paper which she knew his lips had pressed, and folding it she placed it in her bosom. As she did so she raised her eyes to meet those of an elderly lady fastened in surprise and consternation upon her. The spirited horses dashed by, and the lady had passed, but not before Victoria had recognized her mother, who she felt sure had also recognized her. This was something for which Victoria was totally unprepared, and taken unawares she had allowed an exclamation of surprise to escape from her lips, while she could almost hear the name “Victoria,” as she saw it formed by the proud thin lips of Lady Vale as she had passed.
Not one word had Victoria ever received from her mother since the day upon which Lady Vale had left “The Gables.” From her guardian she had heard twice; once to tell her that according to her father’s will, she had forfeited all right to her marriage dower, and that in the event of her mother’s death it would revert to Miss Dora Vale, her cousin; and the second letter was an acknowledgement of the receipt of her letter telling of Roger’s death, and expressing sorrow at her bereavement. That was all. She had written to her mother several times. She knew that the letters had been received, or they would have been returned, but Lady Vale kept complete silence. Victoria’s last letter had been sent when Mary was two weeks old. Her heart was so full of love; she was so proud of her treasure, that she wanted everybody to share in her joy; and she had thought when her mother should read that letter—which ignored the past, and spoke only of Victoria’s happiness, and God’s goodness to her—that her heart would soften toward her daughter, and there would be peace between them; but Lady Vale mighthave been dead, so totally did she ignore all communication from Victoria, and Andrew, thoroughly incensed at her treatment of her only child, forbade Victoria from ever holding any converse with her mother, even if in after years she should wish to become reconciled. So Lady Vale’s face came upon Victoria as one risen from the dead, and to Lady Vale the shock was the same.
“Drive home immediately,” said Victoria to the coachman, and then, overcome by all which had transpired that day, she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. She felt safe no longer. Her mother, knowing her to be in London, would manage in some way to discover her abiding place, and once discovered, her secret, which she was guarding with such jealous care, would become known to all the world, and Andrew’s life would be in danger, to say nothing of the shame and disgrace which such a discovery would bring upon herself and Mary. For awhile her thoughts were chaotic. Her brain refused to act, and seemed to her to burn within her head, and she wondered if she were going mad. Oh, for a sight of the good doctor, for a sound of his calm voice wisely counseling her. She had not a friend in whom she could confide. Not one. She stood as completely alone as if all belonging to her were indeed dead.
Suddenly a ray of light came to her. This old bank clerk, if he should prove to be her uncle, dare she trust him? Yes, she felt that she might. Truth, fidelity, honesty, were all depicted on that sad, careworn face. He had no doubt in his long life been the recipient of many secrets, and the tie of blood which she felt sure she could claim would bind him to her. Her heart felt lighter as she reasoned, her brain became more clear, and by the time she had arrived at the little villa, she had begun to take a calmer view of things, and had determined not to flee from her present abode until matters had become more serious. London was a vast city. The chances were that her mother—even if she should take the trouble—would never find her.
At four o’clock she drove to the dingy lodging house in Depthford Road, and bade the coachman inquire for James Vale. He gingerly mounted the worn steps, and as gingerly rung the antiquated bell, which shook and shivered as if with an ague fit under his savage pull.These strange fancies of his mistress were not to his liking at all. He had lived in high-born families, had been accustomed to driving none but titled ladies, and these low tastes of this new mistress filled his soul with disgust. Not once since he had been in her employ had she driven to a fashionable house, and taken ladies like herself for a drive, but she must needs prowl about in all the dirty back streets, picking up ragged and deformed children to fill her carriage, which he was expected to dust and clean after the drive; and now here was another new freak. She had no respect for herself, and no regard for the welfare of her servants, exposing them all to contagious disease by this wilful running after the slums of London. He would give in his notice that very day, and tell her that he was satisfied with his position except for one thing. It was very humiliating to himself, and beneath the dignity of a first-class coachman, who had never driven anything but quality, to ringing fourth-class lodging house bells, and cleaning carriages after the ruff-scuff of London had ridden in them. He had a deeply injured look upon his face as he waited to assist these new people into the carriage, but the look changed to one of surprise, as James Vale with his little granddaughter in his arms, came down the steps with a glad smile on his thin lips. In spite of his worn clothing, in spite of the humble abode from which he had just issued, there was so much of the true gentleman in his manner, that the coachman involuntarily touched his hat and assisted him to a seat with as much grace as though the old gentleman had been of the nobility.