CHAPTER IV.

Victoria greeted James Vale with a kindly smile, and looking at him closely, she imagined she could trace a likeness in the sad, careworn face to that of her father as she remembered it; and then she turned her attention to little Dora, who sat upon her grandfather’s knee, silent and shy. She was a dainty little maiden, frail as a tender flower, and as beautiful. Her great, blue eyes gazed in wonder at all the strange things she saw about her. Victoria longed to take the little form in her arms; to press it tightly to her aching heart; to murmur loving words over the soft, golden curls so much like her darling’s. She held out her hand. “Will you not come to me, little one?” she asked in a trembling voice so full of tears that the old man looked wonderingly at her. “Forgive me,” she added, smiling through her tears, “forgive me for seeming so childish, but my arms have been empty for ages it seems to me. Little Dora resembles my baby girl so much. I think this pain at my heart would vanish, could I feel the touch of her tiny fingers.”

James Vale without a word placed Dora in Victoria’s outstretched arms, which clasped the child close, close to her breast, and the mother-love, which had been starving for food, rained kisses on the sweet, upturned face. The child was not frightened. Love begets love, and Victoria was showering all the pent-up love of her heart on this little stranger, who so resembled Mary, and who she also believed was of her blood.

“Boo’ful lady,” exclaimed the child, pointing at Victoria with a tiny finger, and looking inquiringly at her grandfather. “Boo’ful lady ky. Dodo ky, too,” and suiting the action to the word, she was about to raise her voice in sympathy with Victoria, but James Vale, raising his hand, said quickly: “No, no! Dora must not cry. Kiss the lady, Blossom, and tell her you will love her; put your arms around her neck and hug her as you do grandfather.”

Dora immediately complied, and as Victoria felt the pressure of those baby arms, her turbulent soul became quiet; her heart felt relieved of its pain. “What a magical healer,” she said, smiling at James Vale, who was on the point of tears himself. And passers-by turned to look after the open carriage, and wonder at the unusual sight of a richly-dressed lady whose beautiful face was radiant with smiles, though tears were coursing down her cheeks, while she held the child tightly pressed to her, the tiny arms clasped closely about her neck.

As Victoria became calm she began to think how best to get this man’s history; in what way to approach him so as to verify her suspicions that he was indeed her uncle.

“You spoke of your daughter dying and leaving this little one,” she said. “Was she a widow? You did not mention anybody else having a claim upon little Dora beside yourself.”

James Vale’s face darkened, and a bitter expression came upon it. “She was worse than widowed!” he exclaimed fiercely. “She was betrayed, deceived by a villian, who drove her to her grave, who broke her heart—curses upon him! If I should meet him I should not think it a crime to kill him. It would be justice.”

As he paused Victoria laid her hand upon his arm. “You, too, have become acquainted with a grief which is worse than death. Tell me your history. I do not ask out of mere idle curiosity. I have a strong motive in wishing to know all about you. I may be of service to you, and when you have done with your history I will tell you mine, and a sadder one you will say you have never heard.”

James Vale glanced at Victoria questioningly. “A stranger’s griefs and sad reminiscences can hardly interest a lady such as you,” he said.

Victoria nodded her head. “Don’t hesitate, Mr. Vale, or if you do I will begin your history for you. Let us say that perhaps years ago when quite a lad you lived, moved and had your being in quite different circumstances from those which surround you at present. In short, you were the younger son of a titled English gentleman, and because you chose to fall in love with agoverness, and were honorable enough to marry her, your father promptly disinherited you.”

James Vale had been regarding Victoria with mute astonishment as he listened to her words, but as she paused he almost rose from his seat in his excitement and exclaimed: “How did you know that? Who has been informing you of events in my life which for years have never passed my lips to other than my family?”

Victoria smiled and placed her hand upon that of the old man. “I will enlighten you in good time,” she said so gravely that he was convinced of the truth of her words. “Mr. Vale, I have a right to know your life’s history, believe me, it is of vital interest to us both that you tell it me.”

He hesitated no longer. “I will do as you request,” he said. “How you became acquainted with my early life I of course know not, but you have been informed aright. My father was Lord Arthur Vale, a proud, stern man, not wealthy by any means, but counting birth and honor far above all gold. I had an elder brother, Arthur, headstrong, willful, but he was my father’s favorite because to him would fall the title and landed estates, while to me would come only a small annuity, which had been my mother’s, but which was at the option of my father to dispose of as he pleased, if I in any way displeased him. In time Arthur married a high-born lady, the Honorable Augusta Champeney. My father was delighted with the marriage, and selected a young girl who had been one of the bridesmaids as my future wife. Lady Anna Dunstry was her name, and she was very pretty although shallow minded. My father told me that he desired me to propose to this young lady, and I being already deeply in love with a governess employed by Sir George Wilson, our nearest neighbor, flatly refused. My father coaxed, and finally threatened, so that becoming weary of his continual hectorings, I proposed to my love that we go quietly up to London and be made one. At first she refused, but I pleaded hard, urging her to consent, for I feared if my father heard of our betrothal he would in some way separate us. At last yielding to my prayers my fair love accompanied me to London. In two days we returned, and with my wife clinging to my arm in mortal terror, Isought my father’s presence. Never shall I forget his anger. He drove us from the house with curses. In a few days he died, and I found myself disinherited, with only fifty pounds in my pocket, and two mouths to feed; but I was young and hopeful. I took my wife to London, and soon found employment in a mercantile house where the work was very laborious while the pay was correspondingly small; but we lived, and labor was sweet to me because I was toiling for those I loved. One child after another came to us, only to remain for a little time. That was the only sorrow we had. Finally little Dora came and stayed. I named her after my dear mother. Arthur often wrote to me, and at every child’s birth sent a gift, all his slender purse could afford. When Dora came and I wrote to him what name we had given her, Arthur was delighted and sent her a hundred pounds. He had wanted to name his only child after our mother, but his wife had settled upon the name of Victoria, and would not be denied. As Dora grew she blossomed into as fair a maiden as ever lived. She was scarcely a year old when my brother died leaving rather a strange will. In the event of his daughter marrying against her mother’s or guardian’s wishes, or before she reached her majority, his estates and money were to revert to his widow, and after her death they were to fall to Dora without restriction. A copy of the will was sent me. My brother’s widow often came to London, but she never took the trouble to hunt us up, or to try and heal the breach between us, and I being the poverty stricken one, was too proud to make advances, and the thought of my brother’s little fortune ever becoming Dora’s never entered my head, but one day, as Dora was nearing womanhood, a white-haired man drove up to the office where I was employed and told his errand. He was Victoria Vale’s guardian, and he came to tell me that some day Dora might receive what had once been intended for Victoria. She had married an American, and had forfeited all right to her dower, and Dora was now the heiress of Lady Vale. We were not glad, my gentle wife and I. We saw trouble in store for all of us. In all probability Lady Vale would want Dora to live with her, and my wife at once said: ‘We cannot part with our one ewe lamb, James,’ and I emphaticallyendorsed her sentiment. In a short time our fears were verified. Lady Vale called and desired to adopt Dora. We declined to part with her, and Lady Vale left in anger, and has never communicated with us since except through her lawyer. She knows of Dora’s death. She knows that Dora left a little one, but she has never been to see it, although, according to law it is now her heir. A mother who could repudiate an only daughter, for the simple fault of marrying against her wishes, could hardly be supposed to forgive those who had opposed her as we had done. My only fear is that my little blossom will perhaps some day fall into her clutches, and her cold, stern nature would kill this little sensitive plant in no time. Once I thought Lady Vale the most winsome, the most charming of women, but disappointments have soured her, until she is no longer the same.”

The old man became silent, and gazed out over the country road they were now driving through. Victoria had chosen this road but little used, because here she was not likely to meet her mother, and they could drive for miles without coming in sight of a human habitation.

“There is one thing you have not mentioned,” she said at last. “You have not told me of Dora’s husband.”

James Vale winced. “He was not her husband,” he said sadly. “He had another wife living when he married Dora, although at the time, of course, she was ignorant of it. He was an artist or pretended to be. He met Dora at a country house where she had gone to visit a school friend, and when she returned after an absence of a few weeks, he followed close after, and asked me for her hand. I did not like him. I told him I could not give my only child to a stranger. He must not ask it. Dora was but a child. He left me, apparently satisfied, but I found out, when too late, that he filled Dora’s head with chimeral stories, and finally she came to me, and laying her bright head on my shoulder said she could not live if her lover was sent away, and that she would follow him; and she reminded me of the time when her mother and I were both young; and against my better judgment I consented, but when I saw her so happy, and when she blessed me for acceding to herwishes, I could not regret what I had done, though I knew it might bring her sorrow. We would not consent to her leaving us, so they married, and Dora was like a bird singing from morning till night. They had been married little more than a year, and I was becoming reconciled to my son-in-law although he had done but little toward keeping the house. He puttered a little at his painting, with Dora hanging about him, but I never saw a completed picture of his. Many were begun but none were ever finished. One day he said he must go away on business, and he wanted to take Dora with him, but her mother would not allow her to travel, for she was in very delicate health. He went away alone and he never came back. He said he would be gone a week. The week came and passed, still he was absent. Dora began to fret, and begged me to go after him, for she knew he must be either sick or dead, but as I knew not where he had gone, I could not very well go after him. Two weeks dragged by and Dora was wild. She had confided to me that he had asked her for some money, and she had drawn nearly all of her marriage dower which was the one hundred pounds which her uncle Arthur had sent me at her birth. I had immediately placed it in bank for her, and on her marriage it had accumulated to quite a sum. When she told me what she had done I made up my mind that we would never see the scoundrel again. At last, after Dora had taken to her bed with a slow fever, there came a letter from him couched in the tenderest terms for her, but calling himself all the vile names ever heard of. ‘He was a married man, with children. Dora was not his legal wife. He had loved her so dearly that he had sinned to get her, but now he had wakened to his folly, and she must forgive and forget him. The name under which he had married her, David Griswold, was not his true name.Thatshe would never know.’”

“Dora never rallied from that blow. She lived three years, but she took no interest in anything going on around her. Not even the advent of little Dora could break the apathy which bound her.”

“Have you ever heard from him since?” asked Victoria.

“Never,” replied the old man. “If I knew wherehe could be found I would go to him, and slay him as I would a dog.”

Victoria clasped the child to her bosom as if she would shield her from all harm. “That man never loved Dora,” she said, “or he could not have left her. Poor girl. What a heritage of sorrow she leaves to this little innocent. Mr. Vale, if you will let me, I will care for her as if she were indeed my own. Who has a better right than I, for am I not her kinsman? Was not my father your brother?”

James Vale did not comprehend her meaning for a moment, as she sat smiling at him. He repeated her words slowly, and then he could not believe them. “I only had one brother,” he said. Then the truth burst upon him. He clasped the hands held out to him, and carried them to his lips. “You are Victoria?” he asked.

“I am Victoria,” she answered, smiling at his evident pleasure. “Your father disowned you because you married to please yourself. My mother disowned me for the same reason. I have never seen her since then, until to-day I passed her. She recognized me. I knew her at once, although she is much changed. Uncle James, for so I may call you, I hope?” He nodded assentingly. “I am so glad to have found you, for I need advice, good sound advice. I am all alone here in England, except for an imbecile invalid husband, and I must have help in my trouble. What I have to tell must be held sacred by you. It is a terrible secret, and the keeping of it has well nigh killed me.”

James Vale pressed Victoria’s hand in sympathy. “Rest assured my dear niece that whatever you choose to impart to me concerning you and yours will be held strictly inviolate.”

“I knew it,” she replied. “Your noble face inspired me with confidence ere I knew that you were of my blood.”

Then she began the recital of her sorrow. He listened deeply interested. She told him everything. She told him of her girlish love for Roger; of her aversion to Andrew. Of her supposed widowhood, and of the premature birth of a shapeless thing, which could not even be called child.

She told of Andrew’s watchful loving care, and how at last she began to care for him, and, though lovingRoger’s memory, she married Andrew who tried faithfully to shield her from every care, and who surrounded her with the tenderest love. She told of the birth of Mary, sweet fair and winsome; of Andrew’s deep love for his child; of the child’s passionate adoration for her father and there she hesitated, while her face showed the torture which her soul was undergoing.

James Vale understood her emotion, and he stroked her hand soothingly. “Do not tell if it pains you,” he said. “I can help you if I do not know the circumstances.”

“No, no, you cannot,” she interrupted. “I must tell you everything. I want your advice. You cannot give it unless you know the full facts. It is another’s sin I must tell you of, and oh, I fear your judgment will be harsh. That you will say things against the absent one who is not here to plead his cause. Things which will hurt me because they are said against him.”

“I promise to fairly judge,” replied her uncle. “I will not say anything to wound you.”

“It is my husband, Andrew Willing, of whom I now speak,” she continued. “Judge him as leniently as you can for he has suffered, bitterly suffered, and every day he is expiating his sin.” Then with many hesitations, with many tears, she unburdened her heart, and when she had done she felt better. The load which had weighed her to the ground was lifted, and was being born by one of her own flesh and blood. What a blessed relief this was to Victoria, can only be devined by those who have borne similar burdens.

James Vale was shocked, horrified at the tale. His eyes sought the dense woods through which they were passing, so that Victoria might not see the horror in them. He had thought that his Dora had been the most stricken of women, but here was one whose sorrows had been legion. Sorrows before which Dora’s wrongs sank into insignificance.

“God pity and help you!” he said, at last. “You are indeed sorely pressed.”

“And now,” continued Victoria, “comes this new difficulty. What shall I do if my mother should discover my hiding place which she is very likely to do. I dare not drive every day for fear of meeting her, and the drives are Roger’s chief pleasures. Can you advise me?”

“I see no way but for you to leave London, my dear Victoria.”

“Ah, but this home for children which is hardly in working order, and as yet I have found no competent man to take full charge of everything. A number have applied but some thing is the matter with all of them. Oh, Uncle James, a thought has just come to me. Will you be my superintendent? What a care will be taken from my shoulders if you only will. You are just the man to fill the position.”

“It is a great responsibility, Victoria.”

“Ah, yes, but think of all the good you can do, and, besides, your duties would not be as hard as they are now. You would be your own master. May I ask what your salary is at present?”

“Forty pounds a quarter, Victoria. A princely salary you see.”

“Forty pounds!” she echoed. “Why, that is barely more than three pounds a week. How do you manage to exist.”

“We did very well while my wife lived,” he answered, sadly. “She was an excellent manager, but now it is oftentimes hard to keep the wolf from the door. Her sickness and death was a heavy strain on my slender purse.”

“If you will become my overseer, or, rather my general right hand man, I will give you forty pounds weekly, and consider myself extremely fortunate at that.”

James Vale looked at Victoria. The offer was magnificent. “It would be robbery,” he said, quietly.

“Ah, no, dear uncle. I cannot get a competent man for less, and then perhaps he may not prove competent. You, whom I can trust, will take the position, I know. Then I shall feel free to leave London, possibly England, and take up my residence in exile far from here. It is my wish. Will you consent?”

And James Vale consented, for he saw that Victoria was in earnest, and when the carriage drew up at his humble abode, and he alighted, with the sleeping child in his arms, it was with the promise that he should come to Victoria early in the morning.

CHAPTER V.

And so after a few days of bustle and hurry, Victoria once more took up her wanderings. Her uncle was her constant companion, and when he bade her adieu at the station, she felt as if everything which she had been obliged to leave undone would be looked after as conscientiously as if she were by his side. She had pleaded to be allowed to take Dora with her, and James Vale consented most willingly. She needed a woman’s care, who else could care for her as tenderly as Victoria who loved her most dearly, and Dora clung to her new found friend as if she had discovered in her a second mother.

Victoria had decided to visit some parts of Scotland, and having heard much of the beauties of the Firth of Forth, she decided to go there for a time and take up her residence at Leith; but she had not been there long when she saw a decided change for the worse in Roger. The air did not agree with him, so of course she must find some other place in which the invalid could be comfortable. He always seemed better when at sea, so she decided to try sailing for a time. A slow sailing vessel was to start for Aberdeen in a few days, and she engaged passage for her party on the ship. At Aberdeen she would rest for a few days until she had determined where to go and what to do; but before the ship reached Aberdeen she had decided. On the voyage she overheard two sailors talking. They were evidently strangers, and were forming each other’s acquaintance.

“Wheer do’est the hail fra’ lad?” asked one.

“Fra’ Duncausby Head, mon,” replied the other, “an’ a’ wish a’ ha’ neer left it.”

“Duncausby Head! Duncausby Head! Wheer be thot noo? Be et far fra’ here?”

The other laughed uproarously. “Weel thou art fash, I ween. Wheer ha’ thee lived all tha’ life?”

“I’ Edinburgh,” replied the first sailor, rather testily. He did not enjoy the teasing laugh of his companion.

“Eh, mon, tha’ should coom wi’ me ti’ my hame. I’ll be gooin’ back soon. Theer I can be free an’ happy.”

“But wheer be it? Do goold grow on trees theer? thou art so fast ti goo back.”

“Noo goold grows on trees anywheer’s, tha’ fule, but Duncausby Head ha’ buried treasures, an I know et. Ha’ ye neer heerd tell o’ John de Groot, a man wi’ a nasty temper, wha’ could na’ live peaceably wi’ his seven brothers, so he built a house wi’ eight sides till it; every side wi’ its own dure, so tha’ eight brothers could na’ quarrel one wi’ tha’ ither?”

“A tale o’ tha’ fairies,” exclaimed the listener incredulously.

“It be no idle tale I say. Coom wie me an’ I show it thee. I ha’ been in it mony a time. It be tha’ ferryhouse wheer thee lands fra’ t’ Orkney Isles, i’ Pentland Firth. Theer be gude fishin’ for all who may wish, an’ I like fishin’ better nor sailin’, so I be gooin’ bock soon, an’ thee be welcome ti’ coom along wi’ me. Nae sickness ever cooms theer. We ha’ nae docther i’ tha’ place.”

Victoria listened at first languidly to the two men’s conversation, and then with interest. Why would not Duncausby Head be a safe retreat for her, and healthgiving to Roger. She resolved to question this sailor at the first opportunity. She did so, and his answers were so satisfactory that she decided to push right on to Duncausby Head, and there abide. Upon arriving at Aberdeen she staid long enough to get a good Scotch woman, and traveling leisurely she at last reached the place where we now find her, five years after leaving America.

Little Dora was now eight years old, and had grown stout and robust, with a Scotch color in her cheeks which would have delighted her grandfather could he have seen it. But for this child Victoria must have gone mad. Her sweet coaxing ways kept green the heart-starving for those it so dearly loved in old Virginia. There were days when the winds and tempests raged about the little point; when it was not safe for man or beast to venture out. On such days when Victoria was housed with Roger, whose health was slowly failing, and who was pevish and sometimes ugly in consequence, the presence of the sweet child with her wise babblings, waslike a ray of brightest sunshine to the heart-sick woman, and she lavished all the pent-up love which had waited so long upon Dora, who returned Victoria’s caresses a thousand fold.

As Roger grew weaker he became more exacting. He knew Victoria’s voice and touch from any other, and if she left him for even a moment, he would howl and beat the air with his fists until she again appeared, and laid her hands upon him. She had sent for a physician, who told her that no change of climate would be beneficial to the invalid. He was as well off in one place as another. It was only a question of time.

“Only a question of time.” Those had been Dr. Harrison’s words five years ago; still Roger was living, and how long, perhaps another five years. Victoria can hardly be blamed for the thoughts which would come to her. She did not wish for Roger’s death, but she wondered how longshecould endure this, to her, living death. Every day the question occurred to her, and every night when she retired she had a fear that when the morning should dawn, it would find her insane. She felt little Dora to be her guardian angel, and many a time after a hard battle with Roger—who showed wonderful strength for one so weak—she would take the child in her arms and sob her heart out on the tender little breast. Ah, yes! She was being punished for the guilty thoughts which once had possessed her for Andrew’s sake.

The mail came very uncertain to Duncausby Head. Sometimes for weeks Victoria did not hear from home, but she did not rebel at that. If any of her dear ones died she could not reach them in time to once more gaze upon their faces. If they were ill she did not wish to know of it. Better death and the knowledge of it, than illness with uncertainty, but every letter brought nothing but good news. All were in the best of health. Mary was a big girl now, and printed her letters no more. She wrote with a bold, free hand, which told Victoria of that other hand which had been her tutor. Nothing went on at home of the least moment but that was told in graphic language to Victoria, who sometimes closed her eyes and imagined herself back at “the Five Gables,” seated beside the lake, with Andrew by her side, and Mary at her feet.

To waken from that dream so real; to waken with Roger’s wild cries ringing in her ears, as he struggled with Adam in mad frenzy over the bug bugging in his head; this was her trial which sometimes she bore with resignation, and again with bitter complainings to God, asking upon her knees if her punishment was to endure forever.

Victoria had changed, and who could wonder that she had. She was not quite forty in years, but she felt aged to twice that number, because of the many trials through which she had passed. Time had dealt lightly with her beautiful hair. The same sunny sheen was upon it as in her younger days, but the sweet laughing mouth had grown serious, while little lines had formed around the full lips, as if they had often been drawn with pain and suffering. But the eyes told of what Victoria had endured more than all else about the face. A stranger, meeting her as she was walking on the sands, would know at a glance that some great grief had come to this woman. Some terrible agony had she passed through which had left its imprint in the sorrowful eyes with a nameless something in their depths hard to define but touching in the extreme.

The rough sailors and fishermen bowed before her chastened beauty, as a devotee bows before a shrine. To them she was a ministering angel, who had known sorrow and grief. She had come among them a stranger, but she had soon endeared herself to every man, woman and child. Many a widow, whose husband slept under the turbulent Firth, had cause to bless the sweet lady whose few spoken words, and tender hand clasp, won their hearts far more than the generous roll of bills left behind as she departed from their homes.

Many an old decrepid whose days of usefulness were done, living in his lonely hut, counted the hours till the fair, sad-eyed lady should come to read or talk with him, and who never left without some substantial reminder of her coming. There was not a man among that little community, but what if called upon, would have cheerfully laid down his life in her behalf, for at all times since her advent had she proved a lady bountiful to the whole village. To her this was a restful haven, and although separated far from those she loved,yet in the spirit she was always with them, and they with her.

One day there came a letter from the doctor, and the news it contained made her sorrowful for many a day. It said: “Some startling news has come to Andrew, verified by papers and affidavits. The mulatto, who has been Roger’s attendant, is Bella’s boy, and Andrew’s half brother; and what is more he knows it, and has kept it to himself. The old woman who took him away when but a little lad, told him of his parentage when on her deathbed, and bade him seek his kindred, giving him the necessary credentials to establish his birth without a doubt. His tongue was cut out by a cruel overseer, for Adam was of a hot, passionate temperament, as who could doubt, knowing his parentage, and brooding over some wrong would have killed the overseer if he had not been caught before he had accomplished his purpose. While Andrew was in doubt as to the best way of bringing Roger home—after he had sufficiently recovered from the railroad accident to be removed with safety—Adam appeared to him as he was riding home from the plantation. By Adam’s signs Andrew soon discovered his misfortune, and he saw how he could make good use of this tongueless man. He immediately took him to the old monastery, and left him to care for Roger while he hastened home, and under cover of the night, with his own hands, arranged the book-case which stood before the closed door leading to the gabled room. It was all easily accomplished without suspicion, for you of course, was prostrated with grief, and took heed of nothing; and two month’s after Roger’s supposed death, Andrew, with the assistance of Adam, had transferred his brother from the monastery to the gabled room. Question Adam. Tell him you know the secret of his birth.”

It was some days ere Victoria could bring herself to question Adam. The letter had again brought Andrew’s crime most vividly before her, and if such a thing were possible, there seemed to have come an added sorrow into the sad depths of her mournful eyes, but one day when Roger’s chair had been wheeled out upon the sands, and Adam, who was a most tireless attendant, was stretched full length beside the invalid, then did Victoria with a tremor in her voice, tell Adam of theletter which had come from old Virginia. He did not seem surprised but smiled and nodded his head, while he touched the breast pocket of his coat.

“Have you something there telling who you are?” she asked.

With another smile he drew forth papers, yellow with age, and gave them to Victoria. She perused them with bitter tears. Yes, indeed, here was evidence in plenty, and as she finished reading she looked up to find the mulatto’s eyes bent upon her, questioningly, and, as she thought, pleadingly.

“Do you wish to be acknowledged as this man’s brother?” she asked, pointing to Roger.

Adam shook his head frowning slightly, while he motioned first to himself and then out to sea.

“Do you wish to be free?” she asked again. “Do you want your freedom papers with plenty of money?”

This time Adam laughed and bowed, then turning to Roger he placed his hand upon his arm and shook his head pointing to the ground solemnly, while he looked sadly at Victoria.

“I understand,” she said, “you wish to remain with us until—until Roger shall be laid away. Then you will, in spite of your misfortune, seek a new land where you may find a wife perhaps?”

Here Adam gesticulated violently, pointing to Victoria, then to some little children playing on the beach, then folding his arms he rocked gently to and fro while a bright smile irradiated his face.

“Ah, you are already married and have children?” exclaimed Victoria, while Adam, delighted that his mistress had understood him, knelt and kissed the hem of her gown.

“Very well Adam, I will see that all your wishes are complied with,” she said, gently placing her hand upon his shoulder. “You have been faithful and devoted. For many years you have been separated from your family. You may never find them.”

He quickly drew from his pocket another paper, and Victoria, upon opening it, found it to be a roughly drawn affidavit, that before Justice McEuen, Adam Spencer, bond servant of George Spencer, of Raleigh, N. C., and Rosa Jefferson, bond servant of James Jefferson, of Raleigh, N. C., had been made man and wife accordingto the laws of North Carolina regarding the marrying of slaves.

“Is this George Spencer the master from whom you ran away?” asked Victoria.

Adam again nodded his head.

“Would you like to have me write to him and buy you from him, and find out if Rosa Jefferson and her children still live in Raleigh; for, of course, your former master could claim you if you did not show freedom papers from him.”

Adam delightedly danced upon the sands, extravagantly waving his hands and trying vainly to articulate his pleasure at Victoria’s words, and that same night Victoria wrote to the doctor all she had learned, and begged him without delay to do everything necessary to free Adam.

Shortly after this another letter came, this time from James Vale, who, yielding to her frequent pleadings, was about to take a needed and well-deserved vacation, and would follow his letter as fast as land and water would permit, and who would be with her ere she knew.

Victoria was glad. The kindly compassionate face of her uncle would be most strengthening to her fast-failing courage. His wise counsel a safe prop on which to lean. How she longed this moment for a sight of him. Ah, she wished the letter had not come, but that he had taken her by surprise.

The next day James Vale arrived, and Victoria had need of his strengthening arm; his calm quiet voice; his never-failing wise judgment, for a grim messenger had arrived before him, and had summoned Roger to that land, where once more he should see, and the poor head should again be made clear. He had retired apparently in no worse health than usual, and Adam had watched beside him till he fell asleep. In the morning when Adam awoke, surprised at not having been disturbed through the night, as usual; he arose from his couch and approached the bed. Roger lay with a sweet peaceful smile on his face, at rest at last. Something in the quiet form struck a chill to Adam’s heart, and placing his hand upon Roger’s forehead, he found it quite cold. He had gone away forever.

When Victoria was told no gladness mingled with her grief; only a thankfulness that at last the poor cloudedbrain was at rest. She did not sorrow for him, he was infinitely better off, but she sorrowed for the Roger of by-gone days, and for herself she wept. She went and stood beside the silent form; she gazed at the quiet face which seemed to her to take on the youthful look when first she had known him, and tears for her young husband, for her first love, flowed unrestrainedly. The past twenty years seemed but a dream. She was once more a youthful bride, and Roger, her beloved, was again all in all to her. Raining kisses on his peaceful face, she whispered words of love into his ears, closed forever, and when James Vale arrived, it was to find Victoria beside the bier of Roger, and talking to him as if he could hear and understand. The brave woman who had suffered her trials for so many years with such rare endurance, had at last succumbed.

Roger had been laid away for quite three weeks ere Victoria regained her reason. At times the angel of death hovered very near, and James Vale thought he could even hear the flutter of his wings, but to Victoria was yet reserved, much of joy, and much of sorrow. The time had not come for her to depart. When she had become convalescent, then, and not till then, did James Vale tell her of another death, her mother’s. It had come suddenly—a paralytic stroke. She died as she had lived, unforgiving, and little Dora was heir to what was left, which had proved but little after all had been settled.

Victoria wept for the mother who had been a loving, indulgent parent until her child had crossed her will, and who had proved so unforgiving to the end. The tears were more for the parent of her childhood. How else could she mourn.

James Vale had written to America of Roger’s death. In those days news traveled slowly, and it was fully six weeks after Victoria’s illness, that one day, with Dora as companion, she went to visit Roger’s grave. A rustic bench had been fashioned by one of the villagers, and presented to Victoria, whose sorrow was respected by every rough man in the village. She seated herself, and drew Dora to her side. The quietness of the place soothed her, and her thoughts turned to the dear old home far, far away. What was Mary doing at this moment, and Andrew, where was he? Ah, if she only hadwings to fly, how quickly would she traverse the distance, and alight at the door of her home—the home where all her great sorrows had been born, and where most exquisite joys had been hers. Hark! She thought she heard her name breathed softly, tenderly. Dora had heard it too, and had started from Victoria’s encircling arm.

“Cousin Victoria,” she whispered, “look there, the other side of cousin Roger’s grave!”

Before Victoria raised her eyes she knew what she was about to behold. A delicious tremor shook her frame. She felt as if her heart was being drawn from her body. She lifted her trembling eyelids, and a cry burst from her lips. Andrew, holding Mary by the hand, stood beside Roger’s grave. His eyes were fastened upon her. His heart spoke through his eyes. It said: “Come to me!” One hand he held outstretched.

Victoria arose. She placed her hands upon her eyes, then withdrew them. The vision was still there. She stepped hesitatingly forward, her eyes fixed upon Andrew; then, her form bending like a reed, swayed to and fro, and Andrew, unloosing Mary’s clasp, sprang forward and caught the fainting form of her who never more should leave him, in his arms.

FINIS.

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES’ PUBLICATIONS.

ASHES,THE SINS OF THE FATHERS,A FAIR PURITAN,THE HOUSE OF FIVE GABLES.

ASHES,

THE SINS OF THE FATHERS,

A FAIR PURITAN,

THE HOUSE OF FIVE GABLES.

READ THE FOLLOWING OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

The “Bridgeport Standard,” writing of the “Sins of the Fathers,” says:

This new work by Mrs. Holmes will, we think, continue and increase the favorable opinions of her literary capacity made by her first book, and the many readers of that will find the same qualities strengthened somewhat perhaps in this. Mrs. Holmes has chosen what might be called a “domestic theme,” for the lives and sufferings, the plots and successes, the faults and failures of character entirely in the private sphere of life, would bring the story within that designation. In the portrayal of character, the weaving of plot and counter-plot, the injection of action which awakens interest, and in the general unfolding of a tale which keeps one reading unwearied to the end, Mrs. Holmes is surely successful, and her rank is destined to be no mean one among the acknowledged novelists of our time.

The “Albany Journal,” speaking of “Ashes,” writes:

This is a tale of a weak, frail girl, guided by her impulses, through trouble and sorrow, until she was brought to see the folly of acting on the spur of the moment. This book has many good points, and the author has worked with a good purpose to good results.

A Fair Puritan, by Mary Johnson Holmes, author of Ashes; The Sins of the Fathers, &c., &c. New York: Hurst & Co., pub.; paper, 50 cents.

This story is one of Mrs. Holmes’ best, and it will possess an additional interest to readers in this vicinity, from the fact that the scene is laid in Connecticut, and that Bridgeport and the surrounding towns are a part of its stage setting. The story is well told, full of interesting incident and analysis of character, never dropping below the safe moral standards which Mrs. Holmes always follows, and keeping up the interest of the reader to the end. The plot is well laid and effectively worked out, and the details are studied with a care and faithfulness which is characteristic of the author. It will add to her reputation as a writer and increase the circle of her appreciative readers.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTESSilently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

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