CHAPTER IV.
At last nature turns if tried beyond her limit, snapped the frail cord which held Andrew’s mind in soundness, and in a moment that which he had dreaded was upon him. He knew that he was insane.
One night he had repaired to his study as usual. The pressure in his head was something almost unendurable. He felt the cord snapping, and resolved ere it was too late, to write a letter to his wife. To write the confession so long deferred. He took his pen and endeavored to collect his thoughts. It was not difficult to inscribe “My Darling Wife” at the top of the page. Then he gazed at it dreamily. Something was wrong in those three words, but what was it? Where did the right begin, and where did it end? He read the words over and over again aloud, so that he might understand them more fully. Then he slowly drew his pen through them and wrote beneath “My Cherished Victoria.” “She will know why I did it,” he murmured. “Oh, yes, she will know.” He lingered over the next words with a tender smile on his face. “No woman on this earth was ever loved with the worship, adoration, which I have lavished upon you. She knows that too,” he continued, resting his head upon one hand. “Why do I tell her what she already knows so well? Ah, why?” He dropped the pen and seemed to be musing, then resuming, with a fierce wild light burning in his eyes, he wrote: “But I have also sinned grievously against you; so grievously, that I can never hope for pardon, therefore I have resolved to take my life, and so end it all.”
He stopped and looked wildly about him. Where was the blessed instrument which in a moment would put him out of the torments and misery now assailing him. He opened several drawers in his desk, and at last found what he sought. He handled it lovingly. This little toy would give him that peace which had fled from him for so many years. He could lie down to a dreamlesssleep and waken—where? He did not care. The unknown and untried hereafter could be better borne than the tears and reproaches of Victoria. He had no dread of what he should meet. If he could only escape, only escape. He kissed the weapon which was so soon to bring him that coveted rest, and laid it down to finish his confession.
He had just taken up his pen when a loud tattoo was beat upon the wall nearest to where he was sitting. He arose with an air of resignation, as if what he was about to do was a duty most irksome to him, and opening the book-case door, placed his hand inside. Noiselessly the ponderous case rolled forward, disclosing an aperture rather larger than a common door. A powerful mulatto stepped into the study, and approached Andrew, gesticulating wildly. He placed his hands to his head, and then upon his chest, motioning toward the opening through which he had just entered.
“Is your master ill?” asked Andrew. The man nodded a quick assent. Andrew motioned him to follow, and went quickly up the stairs which could be plainly seen from the opening.
It was fully an hour ere he returned. He descended the stairs with a weary, lagging step, as if every motion of his limbs was an effort. His eyes had lost their wild, frenzied look, and seemed filled with a dull, heavy pain. The man was suffering deeply, and as he crawled to his chair beside the desk, and dropped into it like a log, one felt that whatever the crisis might be, it was now near at hand.
He folded his arms upon the desk and laid his tired head upon them. Just then Mary’s voice was heard outside the door. “Papa, I am going to bed. I want my kiss.” He heard her but he could not answer. The latch was lifted, the door opened, and Mary entered. For the first time Andrew had forgotten to bolt the door. He was conscious of it. He heard Mary’s step approaching, but some power held him fast in his chair, and he could not rise to close the book-case which still remained open. He heard the sweet, shrill voice in accents of pity say: “What is the matter, papa? Is your naughty head bad again?” Then, although he did not see, he felt that her wondering eyes had discovered the secret door. He heard her moving from him, andhe had the strength to raise his head, and watch Mary as she laboriously climbed the stairs. He listened until his ears could no longer distinguish her footsteps, and then buried his face—upon which despair and ruin was plainly written—once more in his arms. The sword had fallen, and the hair had been severed by his own child. He had not even the strength to lift the toy lying so near him, and so escape the wrath to come.
He heard Mary returning, and heard her running swiftly from the room. His benumbed brain could still determine what she was about to do. She had gone to tell her mother; but somehow, the thought did not worry him. He felt rather glad than otherways. Presently he heard voices. Mary was bringing Victoria. A wild thought flashed through his mind. With an effort he grasped the revolver. He would slay Victoria and the child as they entered, and then himself. At the same instant the toy fell from his nerveless fingers. Ah, no, he could not harm a hair of those so precious to him. Only himself. Only himself; but he did not feel equal to it, just now, and it would shock Victoria. He must wait. Again his head sunk upon his arms.
Victoria entered, her face white and fearful, with Mary clinging to her skirts. She glanced toward the aperture, and approached the wretched man. “Andrew, what is this Mary has been telling me? The child is nigh frightened out of her senses. She declares she has been up some hidden stairs, into rooms which she has never seen before, and there she saw a big negro standing by a bed in which an old man was sleeping. When the negro saw her, he ran at her as if to beat her, and the child came running to me. Is all this true? I can see the secret staircase for myself, but who is the old man, and what does all this mystery mean?”
There was no answer from the bowed figure.
Mary gently shook him. “I have had no share in your secrets, Andrew. Perhaps it were better if I had, but now I demand an answer. Have I your permission to ascend those stairs which I have already divined lead to the rooms in the western gable? Shall I see for myself what those rooms contain?”
“Yes, go!” hoarsely answered Andrew.
Victoria turned to leave him. He raised his head and caught her gown with his hand.
“Victoria!” he cried, “my angel! My more than life! Go, I dare not detain you. God has spoken to me. The time has now come; but my darling, keep what you shall see there a secret for Mary’s sake, and remember that I did it all out of my great overpowering love for you.” He kissed the hem of her gown and sank upon his knees as she wonderingly turned and ascended the stairs. His agonized eyes watched her disappear, and then his hand sought that thing which should give him peace. He groped for it. He had not the strength to reach it, and with a groan he fell forward upon his face.
Victoria had not a suspicion of what she was about to behold. Many strange wild thoughts floated through her mind as she ascended the stairs. The foremost one was that Andrew’s father had not been killed, as had been believed, but that he was an imbecile perhaps, and so had been confined in these apartments for years. Yes, this must be it. She trembled violently as she reached the topmost stair, and stood gazing into the room beyond. It was vacant. No person was in sight, but scattered about the room were several toys such as very small children are amused with. A rattle box, a tin horn, and a drum. Victoria saw, and her eyes also noted the luxurious furnishings of the apartment, which was octagon in shape; and the walls were hung with very rare tapestries, which although faded, she knew were of immense value. How often she had wanted to investigate these rooms, but now that the opportunity had come, she felt an irresistable desire to turn and go back to Andrew, and be content with what he should tell her. A vague dread of what she might see in the further room, stayed her footsteps, and she turned to descend the stairs, but Mary who had become brave now that her mother was with her, pulled at Victoria’s gown and cried: “Come mamma, into the other room, the negro won’t dare to touch me now that you are with me. The old man in the bed looks so funny. Do come, mamma.”
Victoria turned again, and with hesitating steps went toward the further room, whose door stood open. The violent trembling which had left her for a moment returned now and her limbs shook under her so that she was scarcely able to stand. She steadied herself byclasping the door with her hands, while she gazed fascinated into that mysterious room, of which she had dreamed so often, but which was so entirely different from her wildest imaginings. As with the other room, this also was only lighted from the top by one single glass, which was lowered or raised at one’s will, to admit both air and light. The floor was inlaid with different colored woods, over which rich rugs were strewn. The walls were hung with what had once been a bright yellow satin, but which had now faded to a dirty brown in streaks where the light had touched it. The chairs were all upholstered in rich stuffs whose beauty had long since disappeared, but the wonderful carvings still remained. They were the most beautiful Victoria thought that she had ever seen. A Chinese table of teak wood next caught her eye. It was a wonderful work of art. The legs which came together at the top were marvels of carving. The top of the table was inlaid about every two inches with solid ivory, in which were carved tiny figures of men and women, birds and flowers, and in fact everything known to the cunning Chinese artizan. Victoria bewildered, took in the surroundings with a rapid glance, and in much less time than it has taken to describe them.
“What a pity to let these rare things go to ruin when they might be put to good use,” she thought as her eyes sought the bed. A mulatto stood at the bedside, fanning the occupant vigorously. So engrossed was he that he did not heed Victoria’s footsteps. She approached the bed with an awed manner which one is apt to use in a sick chamber.
“Is your patient ill?” she whispered, touching him upon the arm. He turned with a start, and gazed with a frightened look at her and the child. Then he seized her roughly by the arm and strove to push her from the room, but Victoria, who had by this time recovered her usual calm manner, resolved to end this long hidden mystery. She did not remember of ever having seen this negro before, but no doubt he was one of their own men. She turned haughtily upon him. “I am your mistress,” she said, raising her hand. “Don’t dare to touch me. Your master has given his consent to my coming here. Now, tell me who is this man, and if he is not ill why he remains so quiet?”
The man released her with a gutteral sound, which made her start, and wildly moved his arms about, while he opened his mouth and pointed at it. To her horror she saw that he had no tongue.
“Great heavens!” she ejaculated, “what mystery is here?” Her tone was very tender as she added pityingly: “My poor man, I did not know of your affliction. Can you hear? Do you understand what I say?”
He nodded assent.
“Then, who is the man in that bed?”
He shook his head slowly.
“You do not know?” she asked in surprise. “How long has he been here? How long have you been here?”
Again the man shook his head, this time with an air of sadness most pitiful to Victoria.
“Poor fellow,” she said, gently stroking his arm. Then, as a thought came to her, she added: “Can you read and write?” Again that mournful gesture more sad than tears.
Victoria turned in despair toward the bed. “Perhaps I can get a lucid answer from this person,” she thought.
The mulatto approached the bed with a candle. As its rays fell upon the upturned face of the sleeper, Victoria started back with a cry of horror, snatched the candle from the man and placed it close to the sleeper’s face.
“Roger!” she gasped. “Oh, my God! What do I see? Roger’s living face, yet surrounded by snow-white hair? Am I going mad?” She reeled, and the mulatto caught the candle as it fell from her hand. Although everything seemed turning to darkness around her, Victoria did not faint. She felt a tightening grip at her heart, as if some one was slowly squeezing it between their hands. Her eyes could not leave the face of that old man lying upon the pillow. “Who was he?” Not Roger, of course. How silly of her to imagine so for even one moment. Had she not seen Roger’s body placed in the ground with her own eyes? Had she not insisted upon gazing at the horribly disfigured body of her beloved, although the sight had been one which she should never forget? Ah, no, this was not Roger. “Whoever he might be he was not her first beloved.”
As she reasoned she felt calmer. “This was Roger’sfather without a doubt. That was why the resemblance was so startling.” Then she remembered that Roger’s father had been of swarthier skin, like Andrew, with a dark, forbidding face, handsome, yet repelling. Mary had often told Victoria how like to his father Andrew was, and their pictures hanging side by side in the gallery demonstrated the fact. Again the cold perspiration gathered upon her body. She must discover this mystery or she should go mad. She turned to the mulatto who was stolidly regarding her. “What is this man’s name? Can you tell me?”
He bowed his head.
“Is it—is it—” Victoria steadied herself by grasping his arm—“Roger?”
The man smiled and nodded. Victoria thought she must have died and then returned to life, such a rush of emotion swept over her, such a flood of darkness, and then the light again. Ah, if she could only die, but she must ask one more question. Only one more. The answer to that would either confirm or deny her suspicions. With an imploring look on her white drawn face, as if she were begging him to say “No,” she asked: “Is he blind?”
Again the man bowed his head, and with a cry which disturbed the sleeper, she threw herself upon the bed, and clasped him in her arms. This was her Roger alive, she knew not how, or by what means he had been restored to life, but it was surely he, the husband of her youth, the man whom she had loved so tenderly, and whose loss she still deeply mourned. Forgetting the wondering child by her side who was now beginning to cry; forgetting the wretched man below who had called her wife for so many years; forgetting everything but the sightless lover of her youth, she laid her cheek against that of the white-haired man, and called him by all the fond endearing names which once had made sweet music for his ears.
“Roger, my best beloved, my own husband, it is your Victoria who speaks to you; your sweet wife. Awaken, and unravel all this mystery. Do you not hear? Speak to me, call me your darling. Say anything, anything.”
Her voice ended in a sob. She kissed his eyelids, his white hair, while the blessed tears fell unrestrainedly from her eyes. How good it seemed to be able to weep.He had evidently awakened, for his eyelids were now open, and a puzzled expression was on his face.
“Adam,” he called petulantly, “what is all this noise about? How do you suppose I can sleep? Tell all those people to go away? Oh, my head, my poor head. It’s buzzing again, Adam, buz, buz, buzzing.” He raised his hands and placed them to his temples.
Victoria softly kissed his forehead. “Roger, your loving wife, from whom you have been cruelly separated for so long, is here, right here by your side. Can you not understand what I am saying?”
“Go away,” cried Roger, pushing her from him. “I want Adam.” He began to whimper like a child. “I want Adam, I tell you.”
Victoria shrank from him in horror. Was he mad? Ah, no, God would not have restored him to her only to have her find him an imbecile.
The mulatto now approached the bedside, and laid his hand upon the sick man’s forehead, while he made a gutteral humming sound in his throat. Roger’s cries subsided, and his face resumed its former placid expression.
“That’s a good Adam,” he said, after a while. “A very good Adam. Such a kind Adam.”
Victoria stood in silence gazing upon the mental wreck before her. A thousand thoughts flashed through her brain, most of them wild, vague, and full of terror. “Roger was alive, without a doubt, but that was all. In all things pertaining to the past he was as dead as though he were indeed within his grave; but the fact remained that he was her husband. Then what was the wretched man waiting for her below?” She glanced at Mary, who had sobbed herself asleep upon the floor—“and what was her child, her innocent child who had never harmed anybody?” With the cry of a wounded tigress, she snatched up the child and swiftly descended the stairs, forgetful of Roger lying helpless in that other room. All her thoughts were centered on the man who had wrecked her life, and that of her child. “Heshallconfess,” she whispered, pressing her lips to those of the sleeping child. “I will strangle him; yes, I will even commit murder, but he shall account to me for every day of that wretched time when I supposed Roger to be dead!”
She stepped into the study. Andrew lay on the spot where he had fallen. She placed Mary upon the couch and approached the prostrate figure. She touched it with her foot. Her face was hard and resolute. Not an atom of mercy would she show him. Was he not deserving of the most withering scorn? “Wretch!” she said, “I have discovered your secret. At last the truth has been made known. Get up and let me see your miserable guilty face. Come, confess your sin.”
There was no answer, not even a muscle moved under her foot. She caught sight of the half-finished letter lying upon the desk, the revolver beside it. She devined at once what had been his intention. She caught up the letter and read it. The erased words, “My Darling Wife,” touched her deeply. The significance of the erasure was fully understood by her. She groaned as she read it, but the next words brought the tears to her eyes. “No woman on this earth was ever loved with the worship and adoration, which I have lavished upon you.” When she had finished reading the few remaining words Victoria knelt in tender pity beside the guilty man, whom she had just cause for hating. There was no hatred in her heart now. Nothing but sorrow, and a desire to shield and forgive his sin. She turned his face toward her. It was ashen pale and cold as one dead, and bore marks of great suffering. Indeed, for a moment she thought his soul had forever fled, and perhaps even now was being judged by Him who never errs.
“God is just,” she murmured, as she placed her ear at his heart. “He will judge Andrew rightly. What right have I to pass judgment upon this man who has gone to meet his Maker?”
She started to her feet. She had felt just the least motion of the heart, but it had been enough to tell her that life still remained. She hastily rang the bell and bade the servant who answered it to send two men to her without delay, and to go himself for a physician.
When the men came she assisted them in getting Andrew to bed. He knew nothing, and she watched beside him, applying all sorts of restoratives, but without avail, until the doctor came. Andrew moaned incessantly, but further than that had shown no signs of consciousness. The doctor took several moments inthoroughly examining his patient, while Victoria watched him breathlessly. Those few moments seemed like hours to her.
“This has been coming on him for some time,” said the doctor at last. “His brain shows a severe mental strain. I would not like to express my opinion too hastily. To-morrow will determine it, but I fear, Mrs. Willing, that your husband will have an attack of brain fever, and it will be almost certain death, owing to the overworked state of the brain.”
And so it proved. Andrew became violent through the night, and as morning dawned his ravings were such that Victoria had to be taken from the room prostrated. She had confided in the doctor as they watched beside the sick man, and he had at once shown her that now was not the time to disclose to the world the skeleton which had been concealed for so long. Andrew’s severe illness could be a pretext for shutting the doors against all intruders, and with the help of two faithful nurses, they could still retain the secret until a more suitable time, and if Andrew should die, the doctor saw no use of ever unfolding a tale which could only bring upon the survivors shame and ridicule, and upon the name of the dead a tarnished reputation; whereas, keeping the secret could injure nobody. Together they read the few words which expressed so much of what was in Andrew’s heart; which told of the boundless love for the woman whom he had called wife, and of the terrible remorse which haunted him day and night, and which, like an incurable disease, was slowly eating his life away.
“The man has suffered agonies,” said the doctor, holding Andrew’s hand firmly as he struggled and writhed with the pain. “If he were tortured with knives, or his body was put to the rack, he could not begin to suffer what he has undergone mentally during these few past years. The wonder is, how he has borne up so long. Most men would have succumbed long ere this.” And then, as Andrew’s ravings became more violent, they used their united strength in quieting him, until Victoria succumbed to a nervous fit, and the doctor ordered her to be taken from the room.
In a few hours she was again herself, and insisted upon returning to Andrew, who had become more quiet,and seemed to rest contented while her hand was within his. The sick room being next to the study made deception more easy, as the doctor took the study for his retiring room, having promised Victoria not to leave her so long as Andrew lived, for they looked upon his death as a certainty. Here all the doctor’s meals were sent, and much comment was indulged in by the servants in the kitchen over the enormous appetite of the “medicine man,” as he was called.
“I tought Marse Andrew had a comin’ appetite,” said old Chloe, the cook, as she was one day arranging the doctor’s dinner on a tray, “but golly me! I neber did see sech a gormad as dat yer medicine man. Nuffin eber comes back. Now, Marse Andrew, his midnight supper was de only one he car’d fer. He neber teched anythin’ trough de day scasely, but de Lord save us! dis yer man ull eat us yout o’ house an’ home. Heyar yo’ Sam, stir yer stumps lively now, an’ flax roun’ an’ kill two more o’ dem settin’ chicks. We’ll need em all fo’ mawnin. Ya, ya, ya.”
Aunt Chloe chuckled as she placed a plate of steaming hoe cake on the tray, beside a delicately broiled steak garnished with plenty of vegetables. “Don’t spose dar’s nigh ’nough,” she added, thoughtfully, “bet a cookie he’ll be sendin’ down fer mo’; he gen’lally do. Heyar, you Pete, lazy bones, tak’ dis up to Marse Doctor, un don’ drap it on yo’ big feet.”
Pete took the tray, and with a flourish which bid fair to land the whole contents just where Aunt Chloe had admonished him not, he placed it on his head, laughing at her horrified gestures and loud exclamations.
“I is all hunkey, Aunty; don’ you go for to cuttin’ up like dat now. You’ll git de runktums agin suah, hark wat I’se tellin’ ye. Ef dat ar docta wants mo’ stuff, he kin jes’ ma’ch down an’ git it fer hisself. Don’ he tink I’se got nuffin else to do, ’cept wait on his bread basket? Well, I reckon I has. As fer totin’ up and down star’s mor’en fifty times, ter fetch tings ter stuff inter his big jaw, I’se done. Why don’ he keep me dar till he’s done? Den I could go arfter wat he wants, but no, he jes’ sayes, ‘Lay de cloth, Pete, dat’s a good boy; and den yer kin detire.’ In five minutes he wants mo’ bread. In five minutes mo’ he dequests mo’ coffee, and den he only opens de do’ a little teenty crack, jes’ ’nough to git myhan’ in. You’se hearn o’ tape-worms, Aunt Clo? By gollys! I tinks dat yer mans got a dozen.”
“Go long wid your tape-worms,” cried Aunt Chloe, “de blessed dinner’s all gettin’ cold, while you’se shootin’ off dat trap o’ your’n. Spect I want ter stan’ all day cookin’ tings fer yer ter leave ston’ cold, yer soft headed nigger? Start yer stumps now.” She emphasized her remarks by vigorous whacks with the wet dish cloth in her hand, and Pete started on a trot, rattling the dishes together, while Aunt Chloe followed him with anxious eyes, expecting every moment to see a grand tumble of viands from their lofty perch; but a mysterious providence guarded his footsteps, and brought the tray safely to the study door, which was opened by the grave doctor, who took the tray from Pete, saying kindly: “You need not enter, my boy. I can arrange things myself very well without you.”
Pete, not to be outdone in courtesy, bobbed his head and made an elaborate gesture with his arms, thereby causing the doctor to nearly lose his grasp of the tray. As it was, a cup and saucer balanced perilously near the edge, and the doctor loosened his hold of the door to catch it. The door slowly swung open, and to Pete’s utter astonishment he saw standing near the window, a tall, powerful mulatto whom he had never seen before, and who looked at him curiously. The doctor saw the whites of Pete’s eyes grow until the pupils disappeared, and divining the cause he said, nodding at Adam: “You have not seen my new body servant before, Pete? He has just come to bring me some fresh linen,” and a moment later Pete found himself in the hall looking at the closed door.
“Huh!” he grunted, “de docta tinks heself might cute, he do, but I tinksIknows a heap. I’ll jes watch for massa body servant w’en he comes out, and scrap’ quaintance with him. I’se had my ’spicions dat de docta nebber eat all dat stuff. I recon de body servant done help. Ya, ya.”
But Pete, although he sat on the top stair and kept his eyes on the study door, never saw the body servant again much to his chagrin, for in some way he had begun to suspect that all was not as it should be behind the closed door.
CHAPTER V.
Andrew’s illness was of long duration, and Victoria had worn herself almost to a shadow in her efforts to nurse him without any help, except what the doctor and Adam, who was not always at liberty, could give her. She had plenty of time for serious thought while in the sick room. In fact she thought too much, and brought upon herself that most dreadful of all maladies, insomnia. Sometimes, after being all night beside Andrew, attending to the many wants which an invalid requires, she would seek her couch almost dead for the want of sleep, only to find as her head touched the pillow, that all desire for sleep had left her, and that her eyes would not remain closed; while strange fancies and wild thoughts ran riot in her brain; and she often rose from her pillow unrefreshed by not so much as a half hour’s sleep. She did not tell the doctor, for every day, she thought, would be the last of her miserable feelings, and she would then find rest. She did not neglect the poor invalid in the Western gable. Many hours when she should have been resting were spent by her in trying to bring light to the darkened mind. Her bitterest tears were shed in that room where Adam was the only witness. She acknowledged to herself with sorrow and shame, that her wifely love for Roger was forever dead. That the man who ruined her life, held her heart by a cord which she would not break if she could. With every feeble throb of his pulse she felt her love grow stronger, and she knew that if he died her soul would follow his. Her love for Roger was in a great measure the same which she felt for Mary, a brooding motherly love, tender in the extreme, yet so different from the fiery flame which burned her whenever she heard Andrew calling her in tones of passionate entreaty, though the tongue which uttered them was inflamed by fever, and the man knew not what he said.
He had been ill three weeks, and in all that time nota gleam of consciousness had shown in the fever-lighted eyes. No ray of light had come to the clouded brain. Victoria hung over him, watching his every motion, praying for returning reason, while in those three weeks he lived over the ten years of his sin-laden life. Victoria listened, sometimes in tears, and again in keenest pity, while the tongue which had so faithfully guarded the stricken man’s secret was now loosened, and ran on, and on unceasingly, babbling into the ears of the woman he had loved and wronged, all those things which he had so jealously kept from her.
He told of how in the early days of their meeting he had not cared for her, but after a time her loveliness dawned upon him, and grew, and grew, until from a trifling friendship it had developed into a passion which only death could quench. At such times he would clasp Victoria around the neck with almost the light of reason in his eyes, and calling her “mother,” would tell her of the sweet fair English girl who had stolen his heart only to break it. Victoria’s tears fell like rain on the hot purple lips of the sick man, as she listened to his ravings, but not a tear dimmed the brilliancy of the burning eyes fixed upon her’s. He seemed to know that she wept, for he would say: “Don’t cry, mother. You are too young and beautiful to weep, although your hairiswhite, and you love Roger better than you do me. I have become used to that, but mother,” and here his voice would become shrill and discordant, and his features fierce and repellant, “Roger must not steal everything from me; he must leave my beautiful angel with the pure white wings for me to love. I will kill him else.”
Then, perhaps, for a few moments, the burning eyes would droop only to be raised again, with a fiercer light gleaming in them, while he fought with imaginary demons, all bearing the form of Roger, who wanted to take from him his beautiful angel with the pure white wings, whose earthly name had been Victoria. Then for a time he lived over again that dreadful railroad accident, whereby Roger was supposed to have lost his life. With the cunningness of insanity, he would look up into Victoria’s face and laughingly ask her “if she knew who Roger Willing was, and where he was buried. How I have longed to tell Victoria something,” he wouldsay. “What a mockery her flowers seemed when laid upon the grave of an unknown, while Roger was sleeping—ah, where was he sleeping? If I tell you, you will tell her, and then I shall lose you, for you will go to Roger whom you always loved better than you did me, and who stole my angel, my beautiful angel with the pure white wings, but he has paid for it, paid for it dearly.”
Victoria, who longed to know the real facts relating to Roger’s escape from death, questioned the sick man all that she dared to, but his lips remained sealed until one day, as she was bending over him bathing his face, he caught her hands, and, holding them with a grip of iron, he shouted: “Ah! I know you at last. I have been trying to remember you for centuries. You are the shade of that beautiful bride from whose arms I tore the mangled remains of her husband, while not so much as a bruise was on her lovely face. Ah, ha! You have found me at last. Well, now that you have what are you going to do about it? He received Christian burial. I will take you to his grave, all covered with daisies, and you may find there, most any day, a fair woman—Oh, yes, far lovelier than you, beg pardon—who weeps and mourns for him who lies beneath. She thinks it is her husband. Only I know differently.Youwill never tell; you can’t, because you are a shade, and shades never return to bother us; but then, if they don’t, how the deuce did you get here? Ah! I see. I have become a shade; that explains it. Oh, of course, very considerate of you to meet me to ask after the welfare of your beloved. Did I not tell you he was well taken care of, while you were given a pauper’s burial? Nobody ever took the pains to huntyouup. Now go away and don’t bother me. I’ve got no more to tell you.” Then, exhausted, he would sink back upon the pillow, gasping for breath.
Perhaps it was his weakness which appealed to Victoria’s womanly heart. Perhaps it was the strong love which even in his most agonizing moments of pain, he never lost for “his angel.” In all those weary weeks he never called for Victoria; he always spoke of her as if she had gone away or was indeed an angel. To him Victoria was his mother, and her touch soothed him when nothing else would, and many times he pleadedwith her to intercede with Victoria in his behalf. “She knows I adore her,” he would cry. “Mother, she is angry with me. I cannot bear those reproachful eyes forever fixed upon me. Tell her I did it because I loved her so. Tell her nothing, however bad it might have been, that she could ever do, would have turned my love from her. Ask her to forgive. I know she will; she always had such a tender little heart. Tell her I thought it no sin at first, because it brought her within my arms. My arms which are empty now. Ask her if she remembers the night of the ball, when she told me that she loved me, or was beginning to love me. ’Twas then I realized that heaven I had never expected to reach. Oh, God, that night. Will it ever come back to me?”
Victoria buried her head in the pillow. “My heart is breaking,” she cried, as the doctor lifted her wasted form as if it had been a child. “Doctor, give me something to make me sleep. I have not slept for four days or nights. If I might sleep to never waken more, how happy I should be.”
“Think of your child, Mrs. Willing,” replied the doctor. “Think of all those who are leaning upon you; who would be lost without you. You have proven yourself one of a thousand in this severe trial. Be brave a little while longer. Why did you not tell me of this insomnia? Of course I will give you an opiate, and when you shall awaken, life will have put on an entirely different hue, and there will also be a change in Andrew for better or for worse. See, he sleeps. It will be either death or life. Let us pray to God now, this instant. Which shall it be?”
Victoria, almost distracted by the fiery trial which she was undergoing, looked at the sleeper with eyes of love. Then, raising those eyes to heaven, she cried: “Death! Merciful Father, in Thine infinite pity, Thou who knowest the frailties of the human heart and who chastises only by love, let it be death which shall come to him who holds my heart and will not let it go, for if it be life, what will become of us, who are so weak?”
The doctor raised her from her knees and bore her to a couch. “God moves in a mysterious way,” he said, gently stroking the beating veins in her temples.“He does not always answer our prayers direct. Come, say with me the Lord’s Prayer. It covers everything which we need. Will you say it?”
“Yes,” replied Victoria, her eyes still upon the sleeping man; and with her hands clasped within those of her untiring, faithful friend, she repeated with him the simple yet restful prayer, which has brought peace to so many aching hearts. As the doctor repeated “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven,” Victoria’s voice faltered, and, bowing her head upon the physician’s arm, she cried: “No, no, I cannot say that. It ismywill that I wish, notHis. HowcanI say it, when my heart cries all the time for death, oblivion, forgetfulness? God’s will may be to have him live. What, then, must be our future? Ah, no, I cannot, dare not say what my heart rebels against. Think you that I have the strength to live apart from him who draws me by a power I cannot resist? Ah, no, dear friend; the spirit may be ever so willing, but the flesh is woefully weak. There is no safety for either of us but in death.”
For a time the doctor allowed her to indulge in the passionate grief, which shook her frail form as a mighty storm sways a tender sapling. Then, wetting a cloth with a strong æsthetic, he laid it over her face, and presently her sobs ceased and she lay quiet. Removing the cloth, he took her in his arms as he would a tired child, and laid her beside Andrew. “If she awakens, she will remain quiet, knowing that the least move may prove fatal to the invalid,” he said, watching the pale, worn face. “Poor child! Her burden may become greater than she can bear, for I notice a change in Andrew. I think he will live.”
It was hours before a single motion from either disturbed the physician’s reverie. Then Andrew, with a deep sigh, opened his eyes. They encountered the doctor’s. He approached the bed, placing his finger upon his lips to enjoin silence, but Andrew could not have even whispered. Keeping his eyes open was an exertion, and he soon closed them; but in those few seconds the doctor had seen in the questioning eyes the light of returning reason, and with a murmured “thank God,” he set about preparing a cordial against the time when it should be needed, for now he knew that Andrewhad passed the crisis, and with good care would live.
All physicians take a certain professional pride in having been instrumental in saving a patient for whom they have labored, expecting nothing but death. So it was with this good doctor. It had seemed a hopeless case from the beginning. A case which held no promise of a reward for his untiring efforts, and so, perhaps, his joy was greater because this man’s life had been given to him in answer to his prayer. For he had prayed that Andrew might live, just as fervently as Victoria prayed that he might die. He foresaw a serious complication of affairs, if Andrew should die. Much more serious than if he lived, especially so for little Mary, upon whose innocent head would descend her father’s sin. When Victoria should awaken refreshed in mind and body, he would present all these things to her in a light which her clear common sense must acknowledge as being the only way out of this almost insurmountable difficulty. A way in which the family name could be saved from disgrace; in which the dying man upstairs (for his days were numbered) could peacefully pass away; in which the little child who had done no wrong could be shielded from the world’s cruel tongue, which stabs unmercifully from the back, whilst exhibiting a smiling face.
All this the kind friend determined should Victoria be made to see. As for himself when his duty should have been done; when there remained no more for him to do, he would again take up the monotonous routine of a country physician’s life; not without a scar upon his heart, however. These few weeks of close companionship with a woman superior in all things to any he had ever known, had been dangerous in the extreme, and he was conscious of it. He was a confirmed bachelor of fifty years. His boast among his own sex was, that he had never been in love, nor had he ever seen the woman who could tempt him to change his happy state, for what he was sure would be a most unhappy one. He had been the Willing’s family physician for eighteen years. He had been present at every death, at every birth, within that time. He had been a trusted and tried friend of the family outside his professional capacity. He had looked upon Victoria almostas a father might have done, but he found as the days went by, that he had more than a father’s love for the sad, sweet-faced woman, who bore her burdens so uncomplainingly, and who was living up to her faith so far as the light had been shown her.
Unlike most professional men the doctor was a thorough Christian. He carried his faith into his work, not obtrusively; no person could say that of him. Yet when called to a patient who had never employed him before, that patient knew ere the doctor left the room that he was a servant of the Lord. So when he saw that Victoria was becoming every day more dear to him, he did not flee from her presence as a weaker man might have done. He simply stated the case to his Heavenly Father, as a child confesses a fault to an earthly parent, and trusting in the Divine guidance he went about his duties as before, knowing full well that without him the frail bark would founder. That here was he needed, and here he must remain, guiding the rudder until all danger should be passed.
Victoria saw nothing of all this. To her this man was only their family physician in whom she had been obliged to confide. A man deserving of her confidence, and one who would not abuse it. Knowing his aversion to all women she would not have believed her own ears if he had knelt before her and poured out all that was in his heart. She would have said: “I have at last gone mad.”
There were times when Victoria nearly succumbed under the weight of her manifold duties. Then it was that the doctor was obliged to put a strong curb upon himself. He longed to take her in his arms tenderly, soothingly, and stroke the aching brow until he should bring rest to her whom he loved, but he dared not, for he knew she would not understand such love as he felt for her; that it would only frighten her. To him this was the sweetest time in all his life, and he knew that there was no sin in such love as he bore Victoria. He did not desire her for himself. True, if she had been free, he would have striven desperately to win her, but she was not and never would be while he lived, and he did not wish it otherwise. He longed for her happiness; to see her gay and smiling, as he had once known her in her early married life with Roger. She had passedthrough so many fiery trials that they had left their imprint on her face, and she must bear their marks through life, but he would shield her from all further care so far as it lay in his power. The cruel darts of malicious tongues should never strike her, if he could prevent it.
Such had been his thoughts as he sat beside the couch waiting for the crisis which meant so much to all three of them. Now the tide had turned. Andrew would live, and he must, as the only friend who knew his secret, counsel and advise him. However painful, it was a duty from which he must not shrink, and for Victoria’s sake he would take upon himself the secret of “The House of Five Gables,” and keep it from the curious, gaping world.
A second time Andrew opened his eyes and gazed questioningly at the doctor. Then, feebly turning his head he saw Victoria’s white, wan face on the pillow beside him. When he looked again toward the doctor there was a smile of perfect peace upon his face. His lips moved. The doctor bent to catch the words which came feebly, hesitatingly.
“She knows all, and yet she has not left me. How great is woman’s forebearance. I have been ill?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, very ill, Andrew, and unless you keep very quiet and husband what strength you have remaining, you cannot recover. Take this cordial and compose yourself for another sleep. Then when you waken, I will answer all the questions you choose to ask.”
“Just one more question, doctor. How is my brother?”
“There is no change nor will there ever be. He will remain in this state until he dies, which is only a question of time. His days are numbered.”
Andrew turned his eyes again upon Victoria, and tried to raise his hand, but it fell helpless upon the coverlet. He looked wistfully at the doctor. “I am so weak,” he whispered. “Take her hand and put it within mine. I want to touch her; to know that she is flesh and blood. She looks so pale, and wan; so like death, and it has been all for me; all for me.”
The doctor did as Andrew desired, and with a sigh ofcontent, the invalid closed his eyes with Victoria’s hand clasped in his own.
An hour later Victoria awoke. Adam was sitting beside the bed fanning Andrew, who lay sleeping with a faint smile on his face, and with Victoria’s hand still within his. She gently drew it away and rose from the couch. Something in Andrew’s appearance told her that he had awakened in his right mind. The soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, which had long been so colorless, bespoke returning life. Although she had prayed that he might die, a rush of gladness that God had not seen fit to answer her prayer filled her heart. After all, how could she bear to have him put away from her sight forever, and too, there was Mary, who loved her father so passionately, that if he died it might seriously affect the child, who hung about the door all day, refusing to be enticed out to play, and eating scarcely enough to keep her alive. Once she had been admitted to the sick room, but her violent sobs at seeing her father’s swollen lips and colorless face, disturbed the sick man, and she was banished, but she knew that her father was still there, and nothing could induce her to leave the door, where Victoria found her as she went out. She took the child in her arms and carried her into the study where the doctor lay sleeping. “Papa will live, my darling,” she sobbed, burying her face in the clustering curls. “Papa will live. To-morrow you shall see him, and tell him how happy you are that he again knows you.”
The doctor arose as he heard Victoria’s voice and came to her. She looked up with a smile more cheerful than any he had seen on her face for many a day. “You know that he will live?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Willing, he awakened while you slept. He asked for his brother, and then he wanted your hand in his, when he fell into a life-giving sleep, which will do him more good than all my medicines. Good nursing and strengthening food is all he requires from this on. I think I may safely return home to-night. I will come early in the morning to see how he is progressing.”
“Ah! do not leave me,” she said, clasping his arm. “What shall I do without your ever ready hand to assist me? Oh, my friend, you will never know what a comfort you have been to me in this my sorrow. No wordscan express to you what is in my heart. But for your thoughtful care and Christian example, I must have died. God bless and keep you.”
The physician bowed his head. Such sweet praise from the lips of the woman who was so dear to him, was balm to the scarred heart beating now so furiously. He raised her hand to his lips. “My dear Mrs. Willing,” he said, as calmly as if she were a perfect stranger, and he a man of stone. No sign of tumult within him showed upon his tranquil face. “My dear Mrs. Willing, all that I have done any compassionate man would also do. I deserve no thanks for doing my duty. I could not have saved that frail life if God had not willed it so. To Him belongs the praise.” He took Mary in his arms, and kissed her many times. It was a blessed relief to be able to ease his aching heart on the face of this innocent child. Her child.
“You hug almost as hard as papa,” she said, patting his cheeks caressingly. “Do you love me a heap?”
“Yes, heaps and heaps,” laughed the doctor. “What will you take for one of these curls. I would like to take it away with me and wear it next my heart.”
“Couldn’t spare the weentiest bit of a one,” she answered, shaking her head sagely. “My papa owns all of them. He says every hair on my head is more precious to him than all his gold. When he gets well enough to talk to me, I’ll ask him if you may have one. I could not let you have it else, but I’ll give you all the hair on Flora McFlimsey’s head. It’s a heap prettier than mine, and stays put a heap longer. I haven’t any bald-headed children. I reckon I’d like one for a change.”
The doctor laughed. “I should feel highly honored to receive Miss Flora’s hair, and you are very generous to offer it, but it is yours I wish. If I can’t haveitI don’t want any.”
“Oh!” said Mary, meditatively, as she laid her head upon his breast, and played with the buttons on his coat, “that’s it, is it? I reckon you’ll have to go without. Why don’t you buy a little girl with hair just like mine? Then you’d have heaps of curls instead of a teeny one.”
“Ah, but the trouble is, there are no little girls to buy.”
Mary’s mouth made a round O, while she looked at the doctor and then at Victoria, who was amusedly listening. “I—I am afraid you don’t always speak the truth,” she said, after a pause, “and mamma says that’s extremely naughty. You carried a baby to Myrtle Bradley’s house the other day, and one to Dorothy Lane’s. Why didn’t you keep one for yourself?”
“But they were both boys, Mary, and boys, you know, don’t have such nice hair as girls.”
“Oh!” again said Mary. Then, after a pause, she drew the doctor’s ear close to her rosebud mouth and whispered confidentially: “Don’t let mamma hear, but do you know, every night when I go to bed, I thank God that you did not bring a boy to mamma instead of me. I should not like to have been born a boy.”
The doctor roared, and looked at Victoria, who had heard the loud whisper, but his face quickly sobered as he saw her agitation.
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” she quoted. “Oh! God, I too, thank thee for this precious gift, which was not born a boy, who might have lived to curse the author of his being.” She rose hurriedly and left the room, while the doctor gazed after her with a deep sorrow in his eyes.