CHAPTER I.

No. 4. COLUMBIAN SERIES. Sept. 27, 1892.

PRICE 50 CENTS.

THE HOUSE

—OF—

FIVE GABLES.

BY

MARY JOHNSON HOLMES.

NEW YORK:

HURST & COMPANY.

134 GRAND STREET.

1892.

Issued Quarterly.—Entered at New York Post Office as second class

matter.

PRICE $2.00 PER ANNUM.

[Illustration]

THE HOUSE

—OF—

FIVE GABLES.

BY

MARY JOHNSON HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF

“ASHES,” “SINS OF THE FATHERS,” “A FAIR PURITAN,” ETC.

NEW YORK:

HURST AND COMPANY,

PUBLISHERS,

1892.

COPYRIGHT, 1892,

BY

MARY JOHNSON HOLMES.

THE ARGYLE PRESS, BOOK MANUFACTURERS,

265–267 CHERRY ST., N. Y.

THE HOUSE OF FIVE GABLES.

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

Many years ago there stood on a high bluff over-looking the island which

is now the site of a portion of Wheeling, West Virginia, a house known

far and near as the house of five gables. It was built of sand-stone and

brick; the gables were of wood; it was not a thing of beauty, and a

beholder seeing it for the first time, was sure to pause and exclaim at

its rare ugliness, which enchained the eye; and its quaint irregular

shape appealed in a way to one’s feelings, much as a crippled, mishapen

being might have done. It had not always been thus. It began life as a

modest story-and-a-half cottage, and for several years could only boast

of two gables, but with a change of owners there came a change of

architecture also, until if old Sir Roger Willing, the original builder,

could have risen from his grave he would have found it difficult to have

discovered a foot of his own handiwork.

Old Sir Roger’s great-grandfather was one of the hundred settlers sent

from England by Sir Thomas Gates in the year 1607, and settled in

Jamestown; and rumor whispered that it was he who bought twenty African

negroes from a Dutch man-of-war, and so introduced negro slavery into

Virginia in the year 1619.

Sir Roger himself was not long behind Governor Spotswood in crossing the

Blue Ridge, and forming a home in what, after more than a century,

became West Virginia.

There had always been a Roger Willing from that time until now. An elder

son, who kept the old ancestral home, adding to it odd corners as the

fancy took him, and dying bequeathed it to another Roger, with the

solemn injunction never to sell or part with it come what might. There

had been some good Rogers, and there had been some very, very bad ones.

Strange tales were wont to be whispered of the goings on inside the old

gray walls under the reign of “Jolly Prince Roger,” a grandson of old

Roger the fourth. That was in 1763, when Benjamin Harrison was Governor,

and when Wheeling was known as Fort Henry. Young “Prince Roger” had just

come into his kingdom as it were, meaning the old stone house now

boasting three gables and numberless added corners; many acres of

tobacco, and a prolific bank account. Roger’s father had been a man with

one idea; to make money. The idea how to spend it he had never

cultivated, therefore Roger upon coming into possession of what his

father had so carefully hoarded, speedily set to work to make ducks and

drakes of it, and he gathered about him plenty of profligate assistants,

who helped him turn night into day, and day into night, until their wild

orgies became the talk for miles around.

A beautiful slave girl was installed housekeeper, and she ruled with a

high hand. She ordered a new wing to be added to the old house, and

another gable. Stained glass, a great rarity in those days, was brought

from foreign parts, and fitted as windows in the new gable. Costly

carpets, and tapestries of foreign make covered the floors and walls.

Rare treasures costing fabulous prices, were scattered lavishly about

the rooms; unique chandeliers of brass fishes filled with sperm oil, the

light issuing from the fishes’ mouths, were wonders to the class of

visitors who worshipped at Bella’s shrine. Here she reigned queen for

ten years, until one morning, Roger woke up to find himself at the end

of his resources. All his ready money squandered. The old house

mortgaged, and a fair prospect of being without a place to lay his head

ere many months should pass. He was dazed, bewildered, as the truth

became a certainty, and he wandered over the fair lands which any day

might be snatched from him, bemoaning his fate, and cursing it as well.

His companions in prosperity had all fled at the first hint of

adversity, as fair weather friends have a habit of doing, and he had no

one to advise him in his hour of trouble.

The man to whom the property was mortgaged called occasionally, “to

gloat”—as Roger said—“over the prospect of in time possessing the fair

estate.”

“But by heavens! he never _shall_ be master here. Never! Not if I have

to sell my soul to the devil to get the money,” was Roger’s cry. He went

to Bella for suggestions as to the best course to pursue, but she merely

laughed at him.

“Do as I do,” she told him. “Don’t bother your head over nothing. It

don’t pay. It only makes you wrinkled and old, years before your time.

Sell the old rattletrap. It ain’t mortgaged for near what its worth, and

the money you have left over will keep us for a few years anyhow.”

“I can’t sell it,” Roger answered. “More’s the pity. I’m bound by word

to the dead.”

“Bound by your fiddlesticks!” laughed Bella scornfully. “What will the

dead ever know or care about it; you _are_ a soft head; ha, ha, ha!”

Roger went out leaving Bella still laughing. He was disgusted, weary.

Yes, almost tired of life, and he walked around the grounds to a little

lake which he had made for Bella’s pleasure. The water was deep enough

to drown one, if one chose to just lie down without a struggle, and it

would be an easy way to end it all; but something whispered that such a

mode of escape would be cowardly, and with all his faults, the one of

cowardice had never been laid to Roger Willing.

For days his mind continued in a state bordering on lunacy. Then like a

ray of sunlight, there came to him a letter from across the seas. It was

from a great uncle, his grandfather’s brother, who had not taken kindly

to American soil, and had gone to the land of his ancestors, there to

build up a colossal fortune. He had only one heir, a son, who dying left

a daughter, Mary Willing. This child had now arrived at a marrying age.

There was no one good enough for her in all England. Many letters had

travelled between Roger’s father and Mary’s. They had had it in their

minds to unite the English sovereign with the American dollar; but Mary

was at that time too young, and Roger’s father had died ere he could

express his desires to his son. Now, Grandpa Willing being Mary’s

guardian, had thought it about time to broach the subject to his

brother’s grandson. If he was heart free would he come over to old

England, and form Mary’s acquaintance? She had sixty thousand pounds in

her own right, and when her old grandfather died, her dot would be

considerably increased.

Roger stared at the letter, and could hardly realize his own good

fortune. Going to England in those days could not be called a pleasure

trip. It meant many weeks of rough tossing on angry billows. Of a

possible loss of life, but Roger gave not one thought to the dangers or

privations attendant to his journey. He looked forward to the golden

goal at the end, and cared not for what came between. He went to the

richest man in Fort Henry and showed him the letter, asking him if he

would advance a thousand dollars on a second mortgage, for he felt

confident of winning his cousin’s affections. The man consented, and

Roger made ready for his journey in great glee. To Bella he said, “that

if he wanted to save his home he must go abroad,” which was true enough.

“Give me and my child our freedom papers,” cried Bella, excitedly. “You

always said you would, but you’ve put it off as you do everything, and

if you are lost at sea, and never come back, we shall be sold to the

Lord knows who.”

“All right, honey, I’ll tend to it sure before I go,” replied Roger,

carelessly, and as a matter of course he forgot all about it, the time

came, and he sailed away with Bella’s loud wailing ringing in his ears.

He reached England in safety, and found his cousin all that her

grandfather had pictured her; bright, rosy-cheeked, and if she lacked

beauty, still she was good to look upon, and the golden sovereigns at

her command, gave a wonderful luster to her otherwise commonplace

appearance.

Roger’s wooing was short, but most satisfactory to all concerned. Mary

adored her handsome cousin. He was so very different from any young man

she had ever known. His rather free manners attracted and repelled her

at the same time; but she fell more deeply in love every day, so that

Roger’s proposal was hardly to be called one, for he just said: “Mary,

when shall we be married?” While she answered, meekly: “Whenever you

please, Roger.”

“The sooner the better then,” was his reply. “It’s a great nuisance this

getting married. It should be abolished.”

Grandpa Willing was more than satisfied with Roger’s account of his

possessions. He made him describe over and over the old house with its

many rooms and queer angles. Roger told of the goodly bank account which

his father left, also of the vast fields of tobacco, but he forgot to

mention the heavy mortgage resting upon the home; and the old man rubbed

his hands gleefully at the wedding which he had brought about so

skillfully.

It is not necessary to linger over the brief betrothal, or the happy

bridal, for at least to one of the participants, the wedding morning was

the happiest of her hitherto uneventful life, and just before she was

led by a bevy of laughing bridesmaids to meet the bridegroom, she

devoutly knelt in the privacy of her chamber, and thanked God for the

treasure about to become hers; for the gift of an honest man’s love, and

she asked for a divine blessing to rest on her beloved from that time

forth.

As for Roger, he drew on his gloves with an air of ennui, and

confidentially remarked to his mirror, that if it were not for those

golden sovereigns beckoning him on, he would flunk at the last moment,

for the very thought of marriage was distasteful to him; and at the

altar, as the clergyman asked in solemn tones, “Wilt thou have this

woman to be thy lawful wedded wife?” it was not Mary whom he saw

standing by his side, but one of duskier hue, who raised her appealing

eyes to his and asked that justice be done her and hers. He heard again

that despairing cry which had been the last sound to fall upon his ears

as he had driven from his home, and it is no wonder that he cast a wild

glance behind him, ere his trembling lips whispered faintly, “I do.” But

no voice denouncing him interrupted the ceremony, which bound a

trusting, God-fearing woman, to an unscrupulous atheist, and Roger drew

a deep breath of relief as he found himself outside the church, away

from the nodding, gaping crowd, who to his excited fancy all seemed to

point jeeringly at him; and although it was a bitter cold day, great

drops of moisture stood on his face, which Mary in true wifely fashion

brushed away with her dainty cobweb handkerchief; thereby taking upon

herself a bondage which was never broken, until death claimed her

husband.

Roger’s true character was soon revealed to Mary. The honeymoon had

hardly waned ere her idol lay shattered at her feet. He had decided to

do Paris, and one or two gambling places before he started for America,

and Mary followed where ere her lord and master led. She spent one

delightful week in Paris, driving, walking, dining with Roger, and then,

the heavenly blue of her sky was suddenly overcast by a dark threatening

cloud which never entirely lifted through all her life.

She remembered that day so well in after years. She had been more gay

than usual, singing ridiculous little nursery songs all to herself, as

she dressed in evening costume, so as to be ready the moment Roger came

in. Roger did not like to be kept waiting “dear fellow,” and they were

going to the opera of which Mary was passionately fond. She donned a

pretty blue silk flounced to the waist, each flounce edged with

priceless lace. Roger had admired it above all her other dresses, so of

course none other must be worn. After dressing she sat down to await his

coming, and she waited long. The moments grew into hours, and still he

did not come. Supper time came and passed. The hour on which they should

have been starting for the opera was struck off saucily, by the little

clock on the mantle, yet he was absent, and Mary walked the floor,

wringing her hands in wild despair, imagining all sorts of horrors. Now

she saw his dear form torn and bleeding, being pulled from beneath the

feet of prancing steeds; again, she was viewing his lifeless body as it

was tenderly placed at her feet by strangers, and it was with a cry of

almost gladness, that just as the dawn was breaking she heard muffled

voices at the door. “Thank God! the uncertainty was over. Better

anything than this awful suspense which was driving her mad.” She

thought she heard a laugh. “Ah! then he was not dead. No person, however

heartless, could laugh if death were near them.” She tremblingly slid

back the bolt.

“Stand him up against the door,” she heard a voice in French say.

“What are you talking about?” another voice answered. “He can’t stand.

He’s too far gone for that.”

Mary groaned, and dreading what her eyes might behold, she opened the

door just as Roger called feebly: “Shay, you fel—felis, don’ go off an’

leave a fel like this; hic, I’m sick, awful sick, hic, so I am.”

Mary saw two men going down the dimly-lighted hall, and realizing her

inability to lift or drag the burly form of her husband inside, she

called, indignantly: “Come back and assist me. Are you devoid of all

human feeling, that you desert a fellow-being in distress?”

The men turned at her call, and she saw that one was the night porter,

while the other a stranger, was in full evening dress. He lifted his hat

respectfully, and stooped over Roger, shaking him vigorously.

“Arouse yourself,” he said in French.

“Speak United States,” muttered Roger, “I don’t unstan’ beastly

la’guage. United States only la’guage in whole world, whole world, do

you hear? An’ I’ll fight er’body who says taint.”

Both men laughed, while Mary wrung her hands, crying, “Oh, what has

happened him?” Then remembering that perhaps neither of these men could

understand English, she turned to the porter and said in French: “Tell

me what has happened to Monsieur Willing. Has he become suddenly

insane?”

The porter looked at the stranger and smiled. “He knows,” he answered.

Mary turned inquiringly to the stranger, who again bowed profoundly.

“Monsieur is not ill, Madame. Only a little indisposed. He has been

spending the night among a jolly lot of fellows. He lost rather heavily

at cards, and naturally took a few glasses too much. He will be all

right by morning.”

“A few glasses too much,” echoed Mary, starting back. “Do you mean to

infer that he is drunk?”

The stranger bowed his head, saying softly: “That word might be applied

to his condition outside polite society. We seldom use so harsh an

appelation.”

“Oh!” said Mary, looking with disgust at the form at her feet, “thank

you for being so considerate of my feelings. It seems I have much to

learn in regard to polite _French_ society. We English call things by

their proper names. Take him inside and then go.”

When Mary was left alone with her husband who had fallen into a drunken

slumber, she sat and gazed at him long and earnestly. Her thoughts were

far from being pleasant ones. “So this is the end of my happy marriage

which I foolishly thought could never be anything but happy. A sweet

dream rudely broken in one short week. What have I done that I should be

so harshly punished? Tenderly cherished by a fond, adoring father, and

taught by him to abhor vice in any form; and after his death surrounded

by the protecting love of my dear grandfather, how can I cope with this

horror which has so suddenly been thrust upon me. Can I go to

grandfather with my trouble? Ah, no. He is old, and the knowledge of my

unhappiness might send him to his grave. I must adopt some severe plan

by which to cure my husband of this evil which will so soon wreck his

life, and my own, if he continues. Yes, that is the better plan, but how

shall I begin? Is not my woman’s wit equal to this emergency? It should

be.”

She sat for some few moments in deep thought. Then she arose with an air

of determination, saying: “The remedy is severe, but if it only effects

a cure I can rejoice.”

She bent over the sleeping man and pinched him several times, calling

him by name. He slept on. The only difference being that he snored more

musically than before. Mary smiled. “He will never know,” she whispered.

Then stepping to his dressing room, she brought forth his shaving

materials. She had often watched him shave, and thought it an easy

matter to handle a razor. She did not think so now when, after lathering

well his head, she attempted to remove the hair without cutting the

scalp. She stopped in despair after three unsuccessful attempts. Then

with renewed energy which challenged defeat, she began again, and in a

short time, though it could not be called a work of art, Roger’s head

was shorn of its curly black locks, and Mary viewed her work with

satisfaction. She called a servant and despatched him for a pound of

mustard, and when she received it she was not long in making several

plasters, and applying them to various parts of Roger’s body where their

superior qualities would be appreciated the most. Then she sat down to

await the result. She had not changed her pretty dress. It was nearly

ruined, but she did not give a thought to that. She wanted Roger to see

her still in evening dress.

Presently a groan followed by another still louder told that her patient

was awakening. “Water, water,” he moaned, “for God’s sake give me water!

I’m burning to death. Am I in hell? Mary, Mary, where are you? Where am

I? What has happened me?”

Mary knelt by his side. “Oh Roger! dear Roger, how thankful I am to hear

you speak once more. You have been very, very ill.”

“Then I _am_ on earth,” he said feebly, trying to raise his head from

the pillow so as to gaze fully upon the familiar objects scattered

about. “I thought I’d got ’em again, or something. Suffering Job, what

am I in, a bed of fire? Talk of torments. There is no worse torment than

this.”

He uttered another cry which rang through the room.

Mary turned her face to hide her smiles, and said sweetly: “They are

only mustard plasters dear husband. Don’t revile them. They have saved

your life. They are grandfather’s great cure all’s for every ill and——”

“Damn grandfather and his plasters!” broke in Roger, savagely grinding

his teeth. “Take ’em off. Do you hear me? Take ’em off.”

Mary was willing to obey, as by this time a good blister from each one

was sure to have matured, but she moderately took her time. “Not until

you beg my pardon for swearing at grandfather. You have good cause to

bless him, for if it had not been for his remedy you would surely have

died.”

“Father Isaac and all the patriarchs! will you stop your silly twaddle,

and remove these rags, or by heaven! when they do come off I’ll clap ’em

on to you.”

Mary knew that she was safe, for on both palms was a generous supply of

mustard.

“Say you are sorry for what you said, then I will.”

“I won’t, not if I die for it. I’ll ring for a servant.” He leaped from

the couch only to fall back with a groan. More mustard on the soles of

his feet. “Do you want to kill me?” he yelled.

“Far from it Roger, darling. I only want to make you well.”

“Thank you,” he sneered, “you are succeeding admirably. Oh, Mary, Mary,

for the love of heaven, will you take them off?”

Mary looked at him.

“I’m sorry, oh yes, I’m sorry I said that awful word. I’m so sorry, that

if I had your grandfather here I’d make him eat the whole business.”

Mary smiled, and slowly undid the bandages from his feet. “You have said

you are sorry, dear. That is sufficient without emphasizing it. I know

how you feel. Grandfather is always irritable after using them.”

Roger muttered something which sounded suspiciously like a repetition of

his fond speech on grandfather, but Mary wisely closed her ears, and as

the last bandage was removed, Roger gave a huge sigh of relief, and

said: “Now, tell me the meaning of this idiotic performance, and why you

have tortured me with that old man’s infernal remedy; but hold on,

there’s one on my head yet, you didn’t take off.”

“Oh no, dear, I didn’t put any on your head.”

“Much obliged for your thoughtfulness. Something is the matter, though.

It feels as if it had been scalped.”

“I only shaved it, dear Roger. That’s all.”

“That’s all!” he gasped. “By the jumping jupiter! ain’t that enough?

What in Tophet did I marry you for, I wonder?”

“Because you loved me.”

“That’s all bosh. I never cared a rap for you.” He laughed harshly,

enjoying the look of pain and fear upon her face.

“Then you did not even love me when you were courting me?”

“Not a picaune. I’ve got a yellow girl home I care more for than I do

for you. How do you like that?”

Mary buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. Her idol’s

coarse, brutal character stood fully revealed. The thin veneer was

brushed like a cobweb from the rotten porous wood, exposing the

architect’s poor carpentering.

“I will go home to my grandfather,” she sobbed.

“All right, go. You’ve got my full consent, but remember, you can’t take

a cent of your sixty thousand pounds along. That became mine when _you_

did, and I mean to hold on to it.”

CHAPTER II.

Mary spent many weary hours trying to settle in her own mind what course

to pursue, whilst Roger was confined to his bed, cursing the blisters

which prevented him from walking, cursing Mary, her grandfather, and all

her ancestors in the same breath. She felt nothing but disgust toward

the man whom she had promised to love, honor and obey. What was there in

such a man to honor? He had told her in horrible language that the first

use which he should make of his feet would be to go on a protracted

spree, and she would see no more of him for a month. He added with an

oath “that he knew better than to come back for a second dose of

mustard.”

She had written several letters to her grandfather, asking his advice as

to what she had better do, but as yet she had received no reply. By his

wise decision she would abide, feeling sure that he would point out the

right way. She had not changed in her general bearing toward Roger. She

waited on his every whim with wifely solicitude, but without the

endearing words or loving caresses, which she would have bestowed one

week ago. He was still her husband, and would remain so until death

claimed either. She could not forget that. She owed him a certain amount

of obedience, further than that he could not force her to do his will.

“Why don’t you talk once in a while, or tell me a good story?” he said

to her one day. “You are like a death’s head at a feast, and about as

cheerful as one would be, I should judge.”

“I have nothing to talk about,” she answered, wearily.

“Then invent something. If Bella were only here now, she’d make things

lively for me. Not a dull hour in the day. She can dance, she can sing,

she can do anything.”

Mary compressed her lips for a moment, and then said calmly:

“Then you intend to keep that slave girl?”

“Ain’t at all likely that I shall part with her, Mrs. Willing. She is

too valuable. She’s only twenty-six. Look at the family she’s likely to

raise. Every pickaninny will be worth a hundred to five. Part with

Bella? Well, I reckon not.”

Mary shuddered. To hear her husband talk so coldbloodedly of traffic in

human souls, made her heart sick. Was he devoid of all human feeling?

She would try him and see.

“How much money would you want for all your slaves, if you were going to

sell them?” she asked quietly.

“Oh about five thousand, I rec’on. I haven’t many now. I sold a good

many last Spring, but I’ll buy a good lot more when I go back.”

She knelt by his chair, and clasped his arm with her hands, looking

pleadingly up into his face. “Roger, I have never asked a favor of you

since our marriage. You know how I abhor slavery. I cannot understand

it, and never shall. I cannot imagine one human being selling others as

if they were cattle without soul or feeling. Let me buy them of you,

Roger. I will free them, and hire them to work on your plantation. Then,

parents would not be torn away from their children, as you say is often

the case now, and God would bless us for doing right in his eyes.”

Roger burst into a loud guffaw. “That’s rich. By thunder! if it ain’t.

You would take my money to purchase my slaves, then liberate them. What

do I make by the deal?”

“But I am speaking of _my_ money, Roger. Surely I have a right to do as

I please with my own.”

“With mine own,” mimicked Roger. “And pray tell me what is your own?

Look at your marriage contract, madam, and see what that tells you.

Everything belonging you became mine when I married you. Do you think I

would have married you else? You can’t touch a farthing of it without my

consent.”

“And do you mean to say that you would refuse to give me a paltry

thousand pounds of my own money to do as I please with it?”

“You have understood my meaning fully, my lady. Not a sixpence do you

get out of me for the purpose of liberating my slaves. I’d give you any

amount you wanted for any other purpose.”

Mary rose in indignation, and raised her hand warningly. “Then beware,

Roger Willing, of what is coming. I saw it as I knelt beside you, I see

it now. God will send a terrible calamity upon you.” She bent forward as

if she saw some awful vision before her, and Roger watched her,

fascinated. “Be warned in time, miserable man, and repent ere God’s

wrath overtakes you.”

Roger placed his hands before his eyes, and tried in vain to steady his

voice as he shouted: “Cease your idle croaking, woman; you are enough to

drive one mad. Have you not seen and heard of the Willing temper which

stops at nothing when once aroused? Shall I give you a specimen of it

now; now, I say?” His voice rose almost to a shriek, while his face

became purple with rage.

It was now Mary’s turn to become frightened, for he had every appearance

of a mad man. “Roger, Roger,” she cried, “constrain yourself. I will say

no more. You shall have your will in everything, and if evil befalls

you, do not say that you had no warning.”

For many days after this, comparative quiet reigned between Mary and

Roger. She maintained a dignified silence, and spoke only when spoken

to, while Roger spent his time mostly in grumbling at everybody, and

everything that came near enough to him to cause him displeasure, but

this forced peace was rudely broken one day by a message to Mary. Her

grandfather was dead, and had been buried several days. She was needed

in England, being sole heir to all his wealth. Roger smiled and

congratulated himself as being a most fortunate fellow, while Mary in

tears—for she had truly loved her grandparent—prepared for her sad

journey.

Upon reaching England and meeting with old Mr. Willing’s lawyer, Roger’s

feelings can better be imagined than described, when he found that

Mary’s grandfather had died from the effects of her letter, telling of

her unhappiness, but he had lived long enough to curse his nephew, and

to add a codicil to his will, tying up everything so securely in Mary’s

favor, that Roger could never hope for a shilling of it, even in the

event of his wife’s death, for then it was to go to found a home for

aged men, if she died without issue. Roger flew into a towering passion,

and swore by all the gods that he would break the will, but he found

that the old man knew well what he was doing, and that now Mary was

independent of him, and could leave him if she chose, but she did not

choose. He was still her husband, for better or for worse. She had

chosen her lot. She must abide by the choosing. Divorce was something

unheard of in those days, and even if it had been, Mary had too high a

sense of honor to have availed herself of so questionable a mode of

becoming free from a distasteful marriage. She uncomplainingly bowed her

shoulders to the burden placed upon them, and after all business

connected with her grandfather’s estates was settled, followed her

husband on board an American vessel, and set sail for a new and untried

land, to meet she knew not what.

As Roger neared his birthplace, he began to feel that pride in his

possessions which is characteristic of us all to feel, no matter how

humble may be the object which is our very own, and he pointed out to

Mary with more real feeling in his manner than she had ever seen him

manifest, the old house standing on the bluff, and as they entered the

door he turned and kissed her, saying: “Welcome home, Mary. This is

yours as well as mine,” and the thought came to her, that perhaps from

this time on, they might live happier, and learn to love again.

Roger anticipated a stormy scene with Bella, but he had always been

master in his own house, and it would not take long, he felt sure, to

convince her that discretion was the better part of valor, and that she

must again become slave where she had reigned mistress. After removing

their wraps, he began at once to show Mary the quaint house in which she

must now make her home. Through long crooked passages ending in

unexpected octagon rooms, or perhaps in a high-ceilinged

picture-gallery, they wandered, laughing and chatting pleasantly, and

Mary felt nearer to and more at ease with Roger, than at any time since

that terrible night in Paris. The shadow seemed lifting, and she gaily

placed her arm within that of her husband’s, saying: “How delightful all

this is, dear Roger. You have not told me half the beauties of this old

place.”

“There is one more room, Mary, which will delight you, I know. We call

it the gable room. There is not another like it in the whole world. If

you wish it, it shall be yours. We can reach it best through my study.

Come and I will show it you.”

They passed through the study, and Roger opened a panel in the wall most

cunningly concealed, and began to ascend the narrow spiral staircase.

Mary followed close behind.

“There is a grand staircase leading from the other side,” said Roger.

“We will descend by that.” He had reached the top, when suddenly with a

stealthly spring, a beautiful creature barred his further progress. Was

it a woman? For a moment Mary could hardly have told. She was held

spell-bound, fascinated by the panther-like grace of the creature, who

threw back her magnificent head, and at the same time raised a faultless

arm, bare to the shoulder of any covering, except many and

curiously-wrought bracelets. “Halt, Roger Willing!” she cried in the

rich, peculiar voice of her race. “You cannot enter here, and bring that

woman. These are my apartments. If you wish to see me, come alone.”

Roger for a moment was startled, but quickly regaining his composure, he

laughed lightly, saying: “Don’t be a fool, Bella. This lady is my wife,

and _your_ mistress.”

“Never!” cried Bella, passionately. “Never will I acknowledge any person

as my mistress. Give me my freedom papers as you promised to do, and I

will go away; me and my child.”

Roger laughed scornfully. “Your freedom papers, girl? Not I. Why, you

have grown ten per cent. more valuable than you were a year ago. Your

freedom papers! Well, I guess not, my beautiful tigress.”

“Then may your death be on your own head,” she said, solemnly, as she

drew one hand from her pocket, and aimed a revolver at his breast. “With

my freedom papers I would have gone; without them, neither you or I

shall live!”

Before Roger could draw back she had fired, and the aim had been sure

and true. With a cry Roger placed his hand to his heart, and fell

backward, down the stairs, at the feet of Mary, who stood too horrified

to move or speak. Another shot rang out, and Bella, her beautiful face

covered with her life’s blood, fell across the threshold of the room she

had so jealously guarded.

Mary covered her eyes from the awful sight, and stood trembling beside

the still form of her husband. She dared not move, and when she essayed

to scream no sound issued from her parched lips. Her tongue clave to the

roof of her mouth. A delicious sense of repose stole gradually over her,

and as she sank upon her knees and rested her head on Roger’s quiet

body, she thought “This then is death. Thank God.”

Not until the second supper-bell had sounded were they discovered. The

living and the dead; and for many weeks after the sad tragedy, Mary’s

life was despaired of, but her fine English constitution carried her

through her severe trial, and four months after Roger Willing was laid

at rest, there came a pair of sturdy boys to comfort Mary, and they in

time helped her to partly forget the heavy shadow resting upon her home.

As the years passed the twins grew, and were the pride of Mary’s heart,

and also an ever-increasing care.

Roger the eldest by an hour was fair like Mary, with frank, fearless

blue eyes, and flaxen curls. Andrew was swarthy skinned, dark browed,

and had a somewhat forbidding countenance. Mary tried hard to show no

partiality between them, but her heart would lean toward Roger, with his

winning, courtly manner, and sunny disposition. Andrew saw it and

rebelled, but not to his mother. His nature was too secretive to openly

accuse her of having a fonder love for his twin brother, but every sweet

endearing word, or tender look, bestowed upon Roger was carefully noted

by Andrew, and pondered over in secret.

Mary carefully kept from them the manner of their father’s death, until

their twenty-first birthday, then, taking them to the study she showed

them the unused door, cunningly concealed behind tapestries, and sliding

it back, revealed the secret staircase which had never echoed to the

sound of footsteps since that fatal day.

Mary stood between her stalwart sons, and with an arm about each, told

them of the tragedy enacted there twenty-one years before, and warned

them of their father’s fate. She told them how, as soon as she was able,

she had caused the front portion of the house leading to the gabled room

to be walled up, and having changed her servants there was no one but

herself who knew aught of the secret staircase leading from the study.

“Let us go up,” said Roger eagerly, placing his foot on the stairs, but

his mother stayed him by a gentle touch.

“No, my son, the dust of twenty-one years rests upon the cursed things

above. It is my will that no one shall ever enter there. If I could have

kept the knowledge of your father’s fate from you, I would never have

told you this, but I knew that sooner or later some evil tongue would

whisper it to you, and I preferred to tell you the truth, although it

has opened a wound that will never heal.”

Roger placed an arm about her waist, and kissed her white hair. “Your

wish shall be sacred to me, mother mine. Much as I long to explore the

gable room, I shall never enter it except with your permission.”

Andrew said nothing, but brushed a cobweb carelessly from the corner of

the lower stair. A great black spider darted across his foot, another

followed. Mary drew back, a startled look in her eyes. “Come away,” she

cried, “come away. Black spiders are evil omens. No good will come I

fear, from my showing you this ill-fated staircase.”

Andrew smiled and turned on his heel. “Superstition thy name is dear to

woman. Where thou leadest she will follow,” he said sneeringly.

CHAPTER III.

Some few weeks later Mary received a letter, and hastened to impart its

contents to her sons. “We are to be honored, especially honored, with a

visit from Lady Augusta Vale and her daughter,” she said, with more

animation than her sons had seen her display in years. “Augusta Champney

was my dearest girl friend. In fact I had no other. We were inseparable.

She was my maid of honor at my marriage, and was soon after married to

Lord Arthur Vale, who died a few years ago leaving this daughter. I have

always kept up a correspondence with Lady Vale, as you well know, having

heard me speak of her many times. How gladly shall I welcome both mother

and daughter, and if the dear child in any way resembles her mother as I

remember her in her youthful beauty, then she is indeed most charming.

Let me see, she must be about eighteen now.”

Mary cast a thoughtful eye at Roger, who sat idly drumming on the table,

and looking out of the window with rather a bored expression.

Andrew saw his mother’s look and thought bitterly; “Her first thought is

always of Roger. I know what’s in her mind. She has already selected the

English girl to be my brother’s bride. Well he’s welcome to her. The

Virginia girls are good enough for me, but it makes my blood boil to see

mother place Roger first in everything, and if I thought I could

frustrate her plans I would cut Roger out as soon as I saw any signs of

his beginning to make love. I could do it, too.”

Roger suddenly stopped drumming on the table, and turned toward Mary.

“How long will these grand people stay, mother mine?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, dear. Nothing definite is said in this letter. I

shall not care if they never go away.”

“Whew! I think I’ll vacate,” exclaimed Roger, laughingly. “You won’t

want a great lumbering fellow like me around after _they_ get here. I’ve

been wanting to go to New York for ever so long. Now is my chance.”

“Roger, you would never be so ungallant as to run away just at the very

time when I need you most. Why I depend upon _you_ to be our cavalier.

What should I do?”

“Oh, Andy would pull you through all right. He can make himself twice as

agreeable to the ladies as I can. He’ll have the English daisy dead in

love with him in less than a month. Hey, old fellow?”

Roger rose and slapped Andrew heartily upon the back, whose brow clouded

still darker as he watched his brother’s smiling face. “I’ll go off,

also,” he said, gloomily. “Mother won’t want _me_ around. She never

does.”

“Don’t say that, my son,” replied Mary, warmly. “Why should I not want

you? Are you not my own boy, and as dear to me as Roger? You will both

stay here, I know, and help me to entertain my friends. Roger spoke a

moment ago of their being grand people. Lady Augusta will be greatly

changed from what I knew her, if she has even a spark of haughtiness.

She is simple, and free from anything approaching the English pride of

birth, which mar the otherwise lovely characters of the ladies of

England. I am sure she is too wise and thoughtful to rear her daughter

in any other but the true way, so we may expect to receive and welcome

two ladies who are not ‘grand,’ as Roger is pleased to style them, but

who will be as ourselves. Lady Vale could boast of her high lineage if

she chose, for there is no bluer blood in all England, but she is not

one to make a show, or parade her ancestors. I am sure you will never

hear her speak of it boastingly. She has not much of a fortune left, I

believe. Just enough to make her comfortable.”

Mary ended her little speech with a look of entreaty toward Roger, which

said plainly: “You are my dear son. There is none other in the whole

world like you. Stay and lay siege to this maiden’s heart, and give me a

daughter.” Roger interpreted the look, and arose with a shrug of his

shoulders, and left the room. His mother’s manner was marked, and

therefore man-like, he mulishly determined that no one should arrange

_his_ love affairs for _him_, and that if his mother for a moment

imagined such a thing, he would very shortly undeceive her. Accordingly,

a few days before the visitors were expected, he appeared at his

mother’s private room, attired for traveling. “I’m off for New York,

mother mine,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Don’t know how long I shall

be gone.”

Mary arose and threw her arms around his neck. “This is not treating me

fairly, my son. I know you are going on account of my guests who are

coming. Why do you object so strongly to meeting with them?”

“Home won’t seem the same after they get here,” replied Roger, brushing

the soft hair from his mother’s brow. “Andy will take good care of Lady

Vale and her daughter, and I’ll promise not to be gone longer than they

stay. Write me when they are leaving, and you’ll see me here in a

jiffy.”

Mary watched him depart with a tearful face. His long, swinging strides

soon took him from her view, and she sank into a seat, burying her face

in her hands. Until now she had not fully realized how much she had

reckoned on Roger’s falling in love with the daughter of her old friend.

He was heart free she well knew, never having cared especially for any

one lady, and she had really set her heart upon a marriage between her

favorite son and this girl who she imagined must be just the wife for

him. Now her plans were all dashed to the ground, and by her own

foolishness, too. If she had not mentioned their coming, but had taken

Roger by surprise, all might have been well.

She dashed the tears away, and went out to find Andrew, whom she told of

his brother’s departure. Andrew was not ill-pleased at the course Roger

had taken. He had not much of an idea of laying siege to Miss Vale’s

heart, still he was not unconscious of his brother’s superiority in many

ways, and he thought to himself that so long as the ladies stayed, it

was as well for Roger to be absent, and very thoughtful of him to take

himself out of the way.

Soon after this the ladies came. Lady Vale, tall, statuesque, with snow

white hair, and a beautiful face despite her years, and her daughter, so

much like the mother, barring the beautiful bronze hair, and laughing

grey eyes in which, as yet, there was no shadow of a sorrow. Both had

the same sweet, serious mouth, charming when in repose, but most

enchanting when parted with a smile, which was often the case with

Victoria Vale. Her’s was a sunny nature, and Mary took her to her heart

at once. In less than a week they had grown to be inseparable

companions, and Lady Vale often laughingly remarked, that she was

beginning to feel the pangs of jealousy for the first time in her life.

“If God had only blessed me with a daughter like you,” sighed Mary as

she was strolling with her young companion. “It has ever been a sorrow

to me that one of my sons was not a daughter.”

“Surely you do not love either of your sons less, just because he is a

boy?” asked Victoria quickly.

“No-o,” said Mary, hesitatingly, “yet I would rather Andrew had been a

girl.”

“She loves the absent one more dearly,” mused Victoria, looking at

Mary’s speaking face. “Will you tell me about the son who is not here?”

she asked, drawing Mary to a rustic seat and placing an arm about her.

“With pleasure, my love. You have seen his portrait, but that is cold,

inanimate. It does not, cannot give you his winning charm of manner, his

laughing voice, so full of hearty cheer. I miss him sadly, Victoria. He

is a part of myself. We have never been separated so long before. The

boys have often taken trips with their tutor while being educated, but

never of very long duration, unless I went also. I long for his merry

voice, always gay. I long to hear him say, ‘I am here, mother, mine.’”

“Why do you not send for him, Mrs. Willing? I am sure he will gladly

return if he knows how you long for him.”

Mary gazed at the unconscious face of the beautiful girl. Dare she tell

her what was in her mind? Dare she awaken thoughts which, until now, she

was sure Victoria knew nothing of? Yes, she would. Her mother-love for

the absent made her scent approaching danger, and she had noticed

Andrew’s growing interest in her fair guest. She would speak. There

could be no great harm in that. She took Victoria’s hand, and pressed it

gently, while she looked directly into the sweet grey eyes.

“Roger is shy where ladies are, except, of course, his old mother. I

fear he ran away to avoid you.”

A faint, pink flush covered Victoria’s face, and neck, and she quickly

drew her hand from Mary’s.

“I am sorry,” she said, simply. “My mother and I will proceed on our

travels to-morrow.”

“No, no, dear child,” cried Mary, in alarm. “You misunderstand me. Do

not think for a moment that you are keeping Roger from his home.

He—he—oh, how can I tell you, my sweet girl, for fear you may think my

words designing ones, and still you should know me better. I would

sooner die than cause you sorrow, or make you afraid of me.”

Victoria kissed Mary, and said gently: “Dear Mrs. Willing, I could never

suspect you to be anything but good, true, and full of zealous care for

my well-being. Next to dear mamma I love and adore you. Then what is

this that agitates you so? Will you not tell me?”

“Yes, I will tell you, Victoria. Roger has gone away because—because he

loves you.”

“Loves me!” cried the girl, rising and confusedly placing her hands to

her head. “Ah, no, dear madam. You are mistaken. He has never seen me.”

“Ah, my dear, he does not need to see you. Love is not born with the

sight. It is of the spirit. We have talked of you so much. He has dwelt

upon your image, until he is already acquainted with you, and he has

flown from you, abashed at his own boldness in daring to love one so far

above him.”

Victoria buried her blushing face in her hands, and Mary gently drew the

beautiful head to her bosom. “Do not be alarmed, dear one. He is not

coming back to disturb your peace. He will never tell you of his love,

so now forget that I have spoken, or that such a being as Roger Willing

lives. I cannot part with you; your mother has not a warmer affection

for you than I. Then why not remain here in America, making short trips

to different points of interest, but always making this your abiding

place.”

Artful Mary. If she had studied the rules of diplomacy all her life, she

could not have taken a surer way of arousing Victoria’s interest in the

absent Roger, than by talking as she had done.

Many times for weeks after, Victoria caught herself blushing at what

Mary had told her. There is no young girl if told that a man whom she

has never seen, and who has never seen her, is madly in love with her,

but what will often allow her thoughts to wander to the absent one.

“Poor fellow,” she thinks, “I am heartily sorry for him, but of course

he did the best thing for himself by going away. I should never have

fancied him, and it would have been dreadful to have had him in the same

house with me.” Some such thoughts as these often ran through Victoria’s

mind, and she would have been thoroughly surprised at herself if anybody

had taken her to task as to how many times a day Roger’s name was on her

tongue, or in her mind. She would have blushed to answer. Yes, indeed.

Artful Mary.

At first Andrew met Victoria only at meal times, and in the drawing-room

after dinner, and to his mother’s queries as to how he liked her, he

answered that he “never did fancy red heads and owls’ eyes,” much to

Mary’s secret satisfaction, but it was not long ere Andrew sought

Victoria in her favorite haunts about the grounds, and if he saw her

start out for a ramble or canter he was not slow in following her.

Victoria did not dislike his attentions. His dark melancholy beauty was

extremely fascinating, and Andrew had a manner if he chose to exercise

it, that few women could resist. And in a very few weeks he threw all

the fascinations of which he was master around the unconscious Victoria.

Mesmerism was a subject just being agitated at that time, and Andrew was

deeply interested in it. He believed Victoria to be of a yielding,

pliant nature, and one easily influenced by magnetism. If they were

sitting at the table he would fix his eyes upon her, and presently her

eyelids would gently tremble, and then she would raise her eyes like a

frightened fawn to his, and he would turn away with a satisfied smile.

Again, he would be sitting upon the veranda as she passed out. He would

follow her with his eyes, willing her to go so far and no further. She

would stop, hesitate, turn back, and again ascend the steps, and seat

herself beside him. All this pleased him, and he felt sure of being able

to will her to do his bidding at any time when he saw fit. At first he

was only interested in her, and had no thought of love or marriage, but

as the weeks went by, he felt a longing for her presence when she was

absent, and the mere sound of her voice in greeting, sent a thrill

through him, which told him that if he did not already love, he was near

to the brink.

As for Victoria, she was totally ignorant of any feeling, except

friendship, for Andrew Willing, unless it might be a vague uneasiness

when in his presence, for which she was unable to account. She knew that

she breathed easier when away from him, and that very often she

accompanied him on drives and boating, when she did not care to go, but

felt some unseen power almost compelling her to do that which was

against her will. She often raised her eyes to find his fixed upon her

with a strange light in their depths, which made a chill go through her,

and at times when she felt this unaccountable feeling, she would steal

into the picture-gallery, and gaze long and earnestly at Roger’s quiet,

peaceful face. It rested her, she knew not why, and she always went out

feeling calmer, and more like her old self ere any disturbing element

had come into her life.

Lady Vale did not see this little drama being enacted under her eyes, or

she might have taken her daughter away, for she had conceived a dislike

for Andrew, unaccountable even to herself; but Mary’s eyes were open,

and she looked on with fear and trembling. Oh, if Roger would only

return before the mischief had gone too far. She would write a pleading

letter, taking care not to mention the name of Vale, and perhaps he

might come home. So the letter was sent, and very shortly the answer

came. Roger was enjoying himself hugely, and had no desire to return

until the English visitors had departed.

“Well,” thought Mary, “if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet

must go to the mountain. I will propose that we all take a trip, and it

will be strange if I cannot bring them together before the journey is

ended. I am satisfied what the result will be, once they see each other.

My boy cannot help loving her, and she will likewise be drawn to him.”

Mary was not long in broaching the subject of travel to Lady Vale, who

acquiesced immediately; and inside of a week, the house was left to the

care of servants, and the four people had started for Canada.

Andrew was delighted with the arrangement, for he anticipated much

pleasure journeying with the girl he loved, for he now acknowledged to

himself that he was madly in love with the sweet fair English maiden,

whose smile was heaven to him, and for whom if need be he would gladly

die. He longed to breathe his passion but he dared not. Something in the

serene, unconscious face restrained him, and he felt that he could

afford to wait. He seemingly had things all his own way. He saw how his

mesmeric power controlled her, and he felt no fear but that when the

proper time came, she could no more resist him than the charmed bird can

resist the pitiless eyes of the snake. He knew that she had not a spark

of regard for him, but that would matter little when the time should

come to act. His was the stronger will; he would compel her to yield to

his love, then it would be an easy and most pleasant task to teach her

to love him.

CHAPTER IV.

They had been travelling for nearly two months, visiting the mountains

and the different lakes, and Mary was beginning to think about getting

toward New York and Roger, when without any warning came a telegram,

announcing a fatal explosion which had resulted in the probable loss of

both eyes to Roger. He was in a hospital and wanted his mother. Mary

lost no time in going to him taking Andrew with her, and leaving Lady

Vale and her daughter to return to the “Five Gables,” and make

everything comfortable for the invalid’s reception, for Mary determined

on taking Roger home as soon as permissable.

In the hurried preparation for departure, Andrew saw no way in which to

broach the subject of his love for Victoria. He doubted if she would

listen kindly when so agitated by his mother’s keen distress, so he bade

the girl who had become so dear to him, a calm good-bye, and left her

with a strange sinking at the heart, which he knew was not caused by the

news of his brother’s accident, but by a presentiment of something about

to befall Victoria.

Lady Vale and Victoria hurried back to Mary’s home, and there waited in

sorrow for the home-coming of one whom they knew to be his mother’s

idol. Mary had written that there was “no hope that Roger would ever see

again, but they dare not tell him just yet. Let him fully recover from

the shock to his nervous system.”

Lady Vale’s eyes filled with tears as she read the letter, which showed

plainly a mother’s buried hopes. “Poor Mary,” she said as she handed the

letter to Victoria. “The sun of her world has gone down never to rise

again. Her hopes have all been centered in that boy. She seemed to care

but little for Andrew. It was all Roger, Roger with her. How will she

bear this heavy cross?”

Victoria took the letter, and stole up to the picture-gallery, and stood

before Roger’s smiling, winsome face. “Could it be possible that the

light of those laughing eyes had gone out forever? Ah no. God was good.

He would restore to Roger his sight,” she felt sure.

They arrived at evening when everything was hushed and still, and a

quiet peaceful calm rested on the home nest. Victoria watched the

carriage being driven up to the door, then she fled to her room. She

could not meet him yet. Not till the sorrow of being in his childhood’s

home, which his eyes never more would gaze upon, had lost its first

bitterness. She had seen Mary descend from the carriage weeping, and had

seen Andrew assist a blindfolded figure tenderly out, and she realized

that she had no part in their grief; that she was only a stranger, and a

vague longing took possession of her—a longing to be nearer the stricken

one; a wish to take a sister’s part in nursing him back to health and

strength.

In a few moments, she went down, but not into the family sitting-room.

She took a light wrap from the rack in the hall, and passed quietly out

into the fast gathering twilight; but the quick eye of Andrew had seen

her form pass the open door, and he followed her, glad of the chance to

see her alone. She turned as she heard his step, and although the

darkness partly concealed his face, she noticed the glad ring in his

voice as he came quickly up to her, and took both her hands in his.

“Victoria, sweet one, are you glad that I am back? Did you miss me? Oh

how your pure face maddens me,” and before she had realized what he was

about to do, he had caught her to him, and had pressed a burning kiss

upon her lips.

Victoria struggled to free herself, but she failed, and indignantly

looked up into the face of her captor. His eyes shone with a strange

light. She felt a dreamy languor stealing upon her, a desire to sleep.

What did it mean? Had this man a power over her which she was unable to

resist? Horrible thought. She made one more feeble attempt to get away,

and then lay passive and quiet in his arms.

He looked gloatingly down at his helpless burden. “I have conquered,” he

whispered hoarsely. “She cannot fly from me now. She is mine. Victoria,

my sweet angel?”

“Yes,” she answered faintly.

“Put your arms about my neck and kiss me.”

She slowly did as he bade her, but there was no expression in the white

face pressed to his, no passion in the kiss. Only a passive obedience to

his will, which shamed him, hardened though he was, and he felt no

pleasure in the caress which he had been obliged to gain by force. He

gently drew her to a rustic seat, and fanned her with his hat. In a few

moments she breathed a low sigh and looked up into his face; then she

started to her feet and would have fled if he had not caught her arm and

held her.

“Let me go,” she cried. “You hurt me.”

“Victoria, be seated for a moment until I can explain,” he said

pleadingly. “I have not meant to be harsh with you. Any culprit has a

right to plead his cause and ask for mercy. Then will you hear me?”

“I will hear you,” she answered coldly, “but I prefer to stand.”

“That means that you have no confidence in me,” he retorted bitterly.

“You are safe from my touch, Victoria. I shall never lay hands on you

again without your permission. I did not mean to frighten you, I had no

intention of doing as I did. I was a brute. Will you forgive me?”

“No,” she answered indignantly.

His lips parted in a dangerous smile. “You will not forgive me this

slight offense. Then if I am in disgrace with you I might as well tell

you all. I love you! Stay, Victoria,” as she turned toward the house.

“You _shall_ hear me. I adore you! Life will not be worth living if you

do not share it with me. I want you for my wife, and I mean to have you.

Yes,” as she scornfully tossed her head. “As surely as this moon shines

in the sky above us, just as surely will I win you for my wife. You do

not think so now; you say in your mind, ‘I hate him,’ but the time will

come when you shall humbly place your arms about my neck, and say of

your own free will, ‘I love you; I am yours.’”

If Victoria had been a girl of the period she might have returned a

saucy and spirited answer, but being a young lady carefully reared by an

English mamma, and living long before slang was invented, she simply

said: “Are you done, Mr. Willing?”

“Yes, I am done, Lady Victoria Vale.’

“Thank you for placing me on my guard. I shall know how to meet you from

this time on,” and with these words she turned and left him.

Andrew sat for some time in deep thought. He was not disheartened at the

turn affairs had taken. He knew his power and meant to use it, but in a

more temperate way than he had begun. He must be careful and not

frighten the bird away, or all would be lost. So long as she staid under

the same roof with him, he was confident of success.

Victoria made one great mistake. She did not tell her mother. At first

she felt ashamed, humiliated, and dared not confide in her best friend.

She knew that her mother would immediately start for England, and she

did not want to go. She loved Mary dearly, and now here was Roger

afflicted sorely, and she had promised Mary to be his eyes for a while

at any rate. Then why should she allow her hatred of Andrew to drive her

away from duty, and why should she tell her mother of a disagreeable

episode which would never occur again. It would only disturb her, so

Victoria met Andrew at breakfast the next morning with a serene

countenance, and the two elder ladies dreamed not of the tempest in the

two young hearts.

Roger did not appear at breakfast. He was still very much fatigued from

his journey, and dreading to meet strangers with this affliction still

new upon him, he breakfasted in his own rooms, which Mary had made the

brightest and most cheerful looking in the house, even if her darling

could not see them. She hastily drank a cup of coffee, then begging to

be excused, saying “Roger would feel lonely if left too long,” she went

out, leaving Lady Vale with Victoria to entertain Andrew.

Victoria looked after Mary with wistful eyes. How she longed to

accompany her, and beg to be allowed to minister to the invalid’s many

wants.

Lady Vale glanced rather anxiously at Victoria’s pale face and drooping

eyes. “Are you not well, my love?” she asked.

Victoria started, and a faint rose color supplanted the lily in her

cheeks. “I was not aware of feeling other than in the best of health,

dear mamma. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I thought your general expression savored of lassitude; lacked

vivacity, as it were. No doubt the depressingly warm weather has

something to do with it. Now that Mary is again at home and does not

need us, would you like to visit some of the lakes, or perhaps the

mountains?”

Andrew listened almost breathlessly for Victoria’s reply. He expected to

hear a quick assent to Lady Vale’s proposition. After his rough conduct

of last night Victoria would gladly make her escape from his hateful

presence. He could hardly conceal a smile of delight as Victoria laughed

lightly, and said: “Ah, mamma, what did I tell you the other day? Did I

not say that you were sadly in need of spectacles? That your eyesight

was rapidly failing you? And this proves it. To think that you should

imagine I was losing my health. I never felt better in my life. I do not

care to travel. What more enchanting spot can we find than this? I never

tire of its beauties, besides I promised dear Mrs. Willing to lighten

her labor of love, by assisting her in reading to, and caring for, the

invalid. Would it be courtesy on our part to leave her just at the time

when she needs us most?”

“Certainly not, my daughter. If such be the case, we will stay by all

means. I only spoke of going away because I felt concerned as to your

health.”

“Then let your heart be reassured, dear mamma,” answered Victoria,

rising and kissing Lady Vale. “I feel more than usually bright this

morning. Will you walk with me down by the lake? We have still a few

more lines of Virgil to translate.”

“With pleasure, my love. Will you not accompany us, Andrew?”

Andrew hesitated, and was about to assent, when a warning flash from

Victoria’s eyes stayed him. It plainly said “Do not inflict your

presence any longer upon me, sir. I shall rebel.”

“I am extremely sorry, Lady Vale, but I have sadly neglected my duties

in being away from home caring for Roger. I must now go over the

different plantations, and start immediately, so adieu for to-day and

possibly for several days. I may find much to detain me.” He bowed

courteously to Victoria, gallantly kissed Lady Vale’s hand, and left the

room.

Victoria’s heart gave a bound of relief. “Now I shall be my old self

again,” she thought. “Relieved of his odious watchful eyes following me

everywhere, I can again be natural. Ugh! I feel as if a snake had

crawled over me, and left its nasty trail behind.”

She gave her arm to Lady Vale. “Come mamma, let us get out into the

beautiful sunlight, among the fragrant blooming trees. I feel stifled

here.”

They had been down by the lake over an hour. Lady Vale with her white

hands idly resting in her lap, was watching two swans which were sailing

majestically on the placid bosom of the water, while she listened to the

sweet voice of Victoria, reading the closing lines of Virgil. Suddenly

she looked toward the avenue, and placed her hand on Victoria’s arm.

“Hush, daughter, I heard voices. Ah, I thought I was not mistaken. It is

Mary leading her son. Is not that a touching sight? Who could look upon

it without being affected. The mother, her hair whitened with years,

bending her form under the weight of her stalwart youthful son upon whom

she has centered all her hopes.”

Victoria raised her head, and her eyes filled with tears. Roger’s head

was bent until his lips touched his mother’s hair. They were still too

far away for her to distinguish what they were saying.

“How does the dear old place look, mother mine? Is it changed?”

“Not at all, dear Roger. The peacocks are strutting on the lawn. The

swans are sailing on the lake, and, oh my darling, the fairest girl who

ever lived is sitting on the stone seat which you fashioned with your

own hands when but a lad. You ran away from her, but fate, or a kind

Providence which ever you will, has decreed that you are to meet. You

are not averse to it, my son?”

“Not now, mother. I can be nothing but an object of pity to her, and as

for me, all interest in anything feminine has ceased forever.”

Victoria rose and advanced to meet them.

“Oh, if you could only see her now,” exclaimed Mary. “She is tall and

most beautifully formed. Her complexion is like roses; her eyes like

stars; but they are filled with tears, my son; and those tears are for

you; and the expression on her sweet face is such, that if you could but

see it, you would take her in your arms and kiss the tears away. It is

not pity. It is love; maidenly love, which as yet does not know that it

loves.”

Victoria was near enough now to hear Roger say: “Mother, you speak

wildly. What do you mean?” and she wondered what Mary had been saying.

“Ah, Victoria, I missed you, and wondered where you had hidden. Roger,

this is Lady Victoria Vale, of whom you have often heard me speak.”

Roger pressed the little hand placed within his, and smiled. Victoria

thought she had never seen a more winning smile, yet it was full of

sadness.

“Yes, I ought to know Lady Victoria Vale very well,” he said, still

retaining her hand; “but I should like to have met her under brighter

circumstances.” He lightly touched the bandage about his eyes. “If I

could but tear off this hateful band, and be able to see the beautiful

vision which my mother is never tired of praising! But that pleasure is

denied me. I must be content to see only with _her_ eyes.”

Victoria blushed and withdrew her hand.

“Dear Mrs. Willing is partial, and I am afraid sees only with the eyes

of love. She says she loves me as she would a daughter, so you must

excuse any little exaggerations on her part.”

Mary had gone on and left the young people together, while she spoke

with Lady Vale. “Come,” continued Victoria, “let me introduce you to my

mother. Shall I become your guide? Your mother has basely deserted you.”

“Hail to her desertion,” laughed Roger as he felt Victoria’s arm slip

into his. “This is a lucky exchange of companions for me. Are you not

taller than my mother?”

“Somewhat,” replied Victoria, leading him to her mother who rose and

grasped both his hands, kissing him tenderly.

“Ah! this is indeed a greeting worth having,” cried Roger. “See what it

is to be an invalid. I doubt if you would have accorded me this honor,

had I been presented to you six months ago, Lady Vale.”

“Who knows,” replied Lady Vale, who saw that Roger chose to make light

of his affliction, and did not wish too much sympathy expressed. “I am

glad that I am not a young lady. I am afraid I should lose my heart. You

are too dangerous as it is. No wonder your mother’s life is all centered

in you.”

Roger’s laugh rang out joyously, and Mary smiled to see him in such good

spirits.

“Ah, Lady Vale, it is very plain to be seen that you have visited

Ireland, and kissed the ‘Blarney Stone,’” said Roger.

Lady Vale placed her hand on the young man’s arm. “My dear boy,” she

said gravely, “I love your mother as I would a sister. I love her sons

because they are her sons. I have mourned with her over this affliction

which has come upon you, until you have become very near to me. There

has has been no flattery meant in the few words I have spoken.”

Roger grasped the white hand still lying on his arm, and carried it to

his lips, while his voice had a suspicious tremble in it as he said, “I

never longed for my sight as I do at this moment. My mother has

undertaken to describe you, but I am sure her description must fall far

short of the reality. How is it that I am blessed with so charming a

trio to minister to my comfort, and to help to chase dull care away? I

have been anything but a docile invalid, have I not, mother mine?”

“You have been most patient, my son. Indeed, I have wondered how you

could bear all that you have with such rare fortitude, but sit down on

this rustic seat made by yourself, and rest. I am sure Victoria will

most gladly take upon herself the task of entertaining you, while Lady

Vale accompanies me to the gardener’s cottage. I must see him before

luncheon.”

Roger smiled as his mother gently pressed him into the old stone seat,

and walked away with Lady Vale. Victoria stood a short distance from

him, looking out over the lake, and thinking: “What shall I say to him?

I must be cheerful while I feel just like crying, and I can’t think of a

pleasant word to say. I wish I had a good book. One never need to exert

themselves when they can read something interesting. I will ask him who

is his favorite author, then step up to the house and select it.”

“Am I deserted?” said Roger, putting out his hand gropingly. “I thought

I heard my mother say that Lady Victoria Vale would stay by me.”

“I am here,” replied Victoria, moving nearer. Roger touched her dress.

“There used to be room enough for two on this stone. It has not changed,

I think. Will you not sit beside me? I like to have people near while I

talk to them.”

Victoria complied, blushing slightly, as there was scant room for two,

and necessitated the placing of Roger’s arm over the back of the seat.

“How ridiculous of me to blush,” she thought, “he can’t see me.”

“Now tell me how you like our home, Lady Victoria. Is it not the fairest

spot you have ever seen?”

“It is very beautiful, Mr. Willing, but I know one fairer, and more dear

to me.”

“Ah! I can guess without further explanation from you. It is your

English home. Let me see, what is the name of it? I have heard my mother

say.”

“Valecourt, Mr. Willing. Oh, it is so beautiful. I wish you might see

it.” She stopped in confusion, as a pained expression rested for a

moment upon Roger’s face. “Oh, what _have_ I said, pray forgive me, Mr.

Willing. I am such a blunderer. I had forgotten your affliction.”

“Don’t make any excuses,” replied Roger, trying to laugh cheerfully.

“You were wishing I might see your home so far away. What is to hinder

me? I will see it now by proxy. You shall describe it so graphically

that I shall need no eyes, and perhaps, who knows, in the years to come

I may gaze upon its beauties. I shall not always be blind.”

Victoria gazed at the young man pityingly. She knew how hopeless was his

case by Mary’s despairing letters. “Would it not be better if he knew?”

she thought. “Would it not be more charitable to tell him the truth?”

She would consult Mrs. Willing.

Roger continued. “I will forgive you on one condition. That you drop the

formal Mr. Willing, and call me Roger. No one calls me Mr. Willing,

except strangers, and you are not a stranger. You are my cousin. Your

mother said as much. She said she was my mother’s sister. I’ll tell you

what we will do. I hate the handle to your name. I am too thoroughly

American to enjoy titles, although my parents were of English blood.

I’ll call you Cousin Victoria, while to you I am Cousin Roger.”

“Agreed,” said Victoria, laughing. “I never did like those near to me to

call me Lady Victoria. It places me miles away from them.”

Roger felt a strange thrill in the region of his heart as Victoria said

“those near to me.” Then he was one of the fortunate “those.” How soon

would it be ere he could dispense with the hateful bandage, and look

upon the face of the sweet-voiced maiden, who so unconsciously said such

comforting things?

“Let us begin without delay, then, Cousin Victoria; tell me of your fair

English home, Valecourt.”

While Victoria pictured her home to Roger, Lady Vale and Mary walked

slowly toward the gardener’s cottage arm in arm.

“You have guessed my hopes, dear Augusta, or I should say, what was once

my hope, in regard to your child and my Roger.”

“Yes, Mary,” and Lady Vale pressed her friends hand tenderly. “Shattered

hopes. I will say that I should not have been averse to their union, had

Roger been in full possession of his health, but now—dear Mary, _you_

surely cannot wish it, while of course Victoria will not allow herself

to love a blind man. Think of what a future hers would be, tied for life

to a never-ceasing care. Ah no, it can never, never be.”

Mary burst into tears. “My poor boy! What a dark prospect lies before

him. I must tell him the physician’s decision, though the telling break

my heart.”

“Has he enough strength of will, think you, to bear up under it? When he

knows there is no hope, will he do as so many have done before him? Will

he take his own life.”

“God forbid! Oh Augusta, you are a mother; pity a sorrowing mother’s

breaking heart, and promise me, that if God brings those two young

hearts together, and they love, in spite of Roger’s affliction, promise

me that you will consent to their union; that you will do nothing to

separate them?”

Mary stopped and wound her arms around Lady Vale, who kissed the

tear-stained face of her friend. “It is a hard thing to promise, dear

Mary.”

“Ah! but my heart will break if you do not. Think of how little Roger

will have to make him happy. Think of what a joy such a love as

Victoria’s would be to him. They may not love, but if they do, will you

promise me not to withhold your consent? Do Augusta, or my life will be

miserable.” And Lady Vale, although her heart misgave her, finally

consented, hoping that Victoria’s good sense would prevent her from

doing anything so rash.

CHAPTER V.

Andrew remained away three days. They seemed the longest three days in

all his life. He longed to be near Victoria, to hear her voice, to watch

her changing face, even if she did show weariness at his presence, and

treat him with scorn. His perseverance must win in the long run, and

then how sweet the victory. He doubted if he would have loved her with

half the fervor, if she had willingly thrown herself into his arms, but

her scornful half-averted looks, only made the blood course faster

through his veins, and the chase was twice as fascinating. As he rode up

the broad avenue that quiet summer evening, he was as positive of

victory, as though Victoria were already his wife, and he anticipated

the swift look of disdain which would shoot from her eyes, with as much

ardor as a favored lover longs for his mistress’s most enchanting smile.

To his enamored fancy her coldness was only a sure sign of a complete

conquest for him. As he drew near the house he heard voices, and then a

laugh which he knew could only belong to one person, Victoria. The

happy, joyous ring of her voice told that she was enjoying her

companion’s society. Andrew wondered who it could be. A pang of jealousy

shot through him, as he descried a tall, manly form with his arm passed

through Victoria’s, slowly pacing in front of him. “Ah!” he thought, “so

we have a visitor. Very familiar, I must say. I’ll soon put an end to

that.” He savagely thrust his spurs into the animal’s sides, causing the

poor creature to rear and plunge madly, while Victoria who had not heard

Andrew approaching, screamed and jumped to one side, dragging Roger with

her, as the horse dashed by. Andrew wheeled and returned, glancing

quickly at Victoria’s companion, and when he saw the blindfolded figure

of his brother, he uttered an exclamation which sounded very much like

“damn.” He had forgotten Roger, or if he had thought of him, it was of

his being in a darkened room shut away from everything joyous, and

bemoaning his fate. Instead, Andrew saw him apparently happy, with a

jest on his lips, entertaining his fair guide in a manner peculiarly

Roger’s own, and “evidently very pleasing to Victoria,” Andrew thought

bitterly, for _he_ had never been able to beguile such laughter from

those sweet lips. In another moment he was smiling at his foolishness,

at being for even a second jealous of a blind man. “Of course she is

doing her best to cheer him,” he thought. “Poor Roger. Why should I

begrudge him a few moments of happiness? It’s all he’ll ever get, I

fancy.”

He alighted and grasped Roger by the hand. “Hello, old chap,” he said

heartily. “I’m glad to see you out, and more like your old self than

when I went away. How are the eyes progressing?” To Victoria he merely

raised his hat, who acknowledged his salutation by a silent bow.

“Hello, yourself,” cried Roger, taking his arm from Victoria’s. “I’m

right glad to see you back again, Andrew. My eyes are doing fine, thank

you. I think it nonsense to keep all this fol-de-rol around them. I’m

sure they would get well much quicker without the bandage. I fancied I

could see a ray of light this morning, as Richard dressed them.”

Andrew started, and glanced toward Victoria, but she stood a little

apart, with her eyes on the ground, and as he slipped his horse’s bridle

over one arm, he offered the other to Roger, saying: “Come, brother, let

me perform the pleasant duty of guiding you, although I may not be so

apt as your fair companion. I hope it will not be long now that any one

shall have to be eyes for you.” While in his heart he was saying: “Can

it be possible that the doctor was wrong in saying that his eyesight was

totally destroyed? Doctors make mistakes sometimes, as well as other

people. Well, if such be the case my goose will be cooked; I can see

that with half an eye. Victoria would never look at me twice, after

gazing into the laughing eyes of Roger, for he is far superior to me,

and I know it. Well, may the best fellow win. I can hold my own with a

man without eyes, but, ah yes, there is a but in every case, I reckon,

and if Roger regains the sight of those melting orbs, good-bye, Andrew

Willing, and exaunt from the scene.”

He followed his mother from the dining-room after their evening meal,

and when they were alone, he said: “Is there any hope of Roger regaining

his sight?”

“None whatever, Andrew.”

“But he told me he fancied he could see a ray of light this morning,

when his attendant was dressing his eyes.”

Mrs. Willing began to weep. “Poor boy, he fancies that every day;

perhaps he can distinguish light from darkness, but what is that? I had

a letter from Dr. Kohler last night. He is coming—as he promised to

do—when it is time to remove the bandage. Then he will break the news to

Roger. It is better that he should hear it from a stranger.”

Andrew went out from his mother’s presence with almost rejoicing in his

heart. He knew he ought to mourn with her at this affliction which had

come upon his twin brother, but instead, he felt a wicked satisfaction

in knowing that Roger would be shorn of his greatest strength as long as

he lived. The care of the plantation, all money matters which had once

been Roger’s prerogative, would now revert to the younger brother;

younger by one short hour, but who had been made to feel all his life,

that Roger was his superior in everything, and now,—now that a new love

had sprung up in his heart, and for a moment, a fierce jealousy as well,

he knew that if Roger by any chance should regain his eyesight, he

should hate him with bitterer hatred than ever Cain displayed toward

_his_ brother. All else he might relinquish in Roger’s favor, but

Victoria never.

For several days he watched the pair with Argus eyes. Not a motion made

by either escaped him. Victoria was soon conscious of his espionage, and

became guarded in her actions, never betraying by word or look the deep

interest she felt in Roger, so that Andrew finally concluded, that Roger

was fast falling in love with Victoria, but that _she_ cared nothing for

the blind man, nor would she ever. He soon tried his power over

Victoria, and to his delight found it as strong as ever. One day he was

sitting in the little rustic summer-house, when he saw her going down

the avenue toward the lodge gates. He never took his eyes off of her

figure, but slowly put out both hands toward her. Presently she turned,

and came rapidly back directing her steps to where he was sitting. There

were two doors to the summer-house, and as she approached, he quietly

slipped out behind an acacia bush, taking care not to turn his back to

her, keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon her. She entered by the

opposite door and sat down, with a vacant expression in her eyes,

languidly leaning her head against the lattice work. A few seconds

passed, and Andrew stole out from behind the bush, and seated himself

beside her, taking her passive hand in his, and patting it gently.

“Are you happy, Victoria,” he whispered.

“Oh, so happy,” she answered dreamily.

“Do you love?”

“Ah yes,” with a sigh, “I love.”

He passed his hand over her face and her eyes closed. “Do you love me,

Victoria darling?”

“Yes, I love you.”

“Then kiss me. Kiss my hands, my hair, my face!”

Victoria complied, and different to that other time when he had forced

her, there was now a passionate abandonment in her caresses, which

caused the blood to course through his veins like fire, and he caught

her to his breast, pressing his face to the one not whiter than his own.

“God in heaven, how I love her!” he cried. A moment later he was again

behind the bush, and Victoria slowly opened her eyes, yawned, and looked

about her, bewildered. “Strange,” she said dreamily, “very strange. How

came I here? I started for the lodge. Oh, I know. I felt so sort of weak

and trembling, that I decided to rest for a moment. I must have dropped

asleep.” She arose and passed out.

As soon as she had disappeared, Andrew entered the summer-house, flung

himself down on the seat so lately occupied by Victoria, and remained

buried in thought for some time. He dared not try his power too often,

and only then when he was safe from detection. He knew that if

Victoria’s suspicions should be again aroused, she would flee from the

house, and he would lose her forever; so when in her presence he was

most circumspect, and veiled his eyes when he knew they betrayed too

dangerous a fire.

Meanwhile Roger’s eyes had ceased to pain him, and he chafed at having

to still wear the bandage. One day his ill-humor and impatience got the

upper hand of him, and he took Victoria by surprise by suddenly tearing

the bandage from his face. She had been reading Ivanhoe to him. They

were out in their favorite stone seat by the lake. A quick gesture

caused her to glance up, and she uttered a faint cry, for she saw him

for the first time without the disfiguring cloth.

“Oh, Cousin Roger! What made you?” she cried. “You must let me bandage

your eyes again.”

“Never,” he replied, catching her hand as he felt it touch his face. “I

have waited for that confounded doctor to come till I’m tired. My eyes

must get accustomed to the light or I’ll never see, and Victoria, I have

heard your voice, your laugh, have felt your presence until I am wild to

see your face.” He groped for her face, and took it between his hands,

drawing it close until it nearly touched his own.

“Can you see me?” she asked eagerly. He sadly dropped his hands.

“No, Victoria. I cannot see even an object. Oh, God! the thought that

perhaps I may be totally blind is maddening. Victoria!” His voice as he

spoke her name ran the whole gamut of love, hope, despair, misery.

Victoria quickly placed her hand upon his. “What is it, dear Roger?”

“Victoria, I cannot live if I am blind. When the doctor comes, if he

tells me there is no hope, I shall end my useless life—there.” He

pointed toward the lake.

“Oh, no, no, Roger! How can you think of anything so horrible? Have you

no love for your mother who adores you, that you should grieve her so?”

“I shall soon be forgotten, Victoria. Better to die and end it all than

to live a burden, and no comfort to anybody. Ah, Victoria, you do not

know what hopes I have cherished. What visions I have seen. God grant

they may be realized.” He grasped the hand which still lingered on his

arm. “My angel of peace, my comforter, my eyes, it is a cruel question I

am going to ask you. Could you sacrifice your youth, your fresh beauty,

to become the companion for life of one who would be a constant care;

who could not bear to have you from his side one moment?”

A glad light suffused Victoria’s face, but ere she could reply Andrew

stood before them. She quickly withdrew her hand from Roger’s, whose sad

countenance became still sadder.

“Ah, here you are,” said Andrew, noting with his keen eyes the disturbed

faces before him. “What, Roger! Are you without the bandage?”

“Yes,” said Roger gloomily. “I can see as well without it, as with it.

Darkness and daylight are as one with me now. God help me!” He rose and

Andrew passed his arm through his brother’s.

“Dear old boy don’t give way like this. The doctor’s decision may be

favorable. Don’t borrow trouble.”

“Oh no, I’m not borrowing,” said Roger, with a laugh, sadder than any

tears. “It is thrust upon me free gratis. There is no need to borrow.

Come, tell me of yourself Andrew. Mother tells me you are up for

Governor. Do you stand the ghost of a chance, think you?”

“Not so much as the tenth part of a ghost, dear fellow. The Whigs will

carry the day in spite of our heavy electioneering, and I hope they

will. I’d never consented to run if I had dreamed of getting elected.

I’d make a fine Governor, wouldn’t I?”

“You’d be far better than the present one I reckon, even if you are but

twenty-two. Cousin Victoria?”

“Victoria is not here,” replied Andrew. “She is out of sight, gone

toward the lodge.”

“Then let us go to the house, Andrew. Great God! what an affliction is

mine if I never regain my sight. I had rather lost a limb, aye, all of

them, than to have lost my eyes. Ah, my brother, the doctor’s decision

means everything to me!”

“Were you making love to Victoria as I came up?” asked Andrew, darting a

glance at Roger, which fortunately he could not see.

“Not exactly,” replied Roger rather ironically, remembering the recent

conversation. “It takes two to make love generally.”

Andrew’s dark face lightened. “Then she was not agreeable?”

“How could a sensible woman listen to the wild ravings of an imbecile?”

said Roger, bitterly. “What girl, young and beautiful, would willingly

yoke herself to a cripple for life? I must have been an ass, a two-fold

idiot, to let my feelings carry me away, but by heavens, Andy! if the

doctor gives me hope—Hope! Oh, God, what a blessed word; if he gives me

hope, I’ll win her, but——”

“If he tells you nothing can be done?” asked Andrew, eagerly.

“There will be but one course left for me,” replied Roger, again

pointing to the lake.

“Ah, no, old boy, not that,” and Andrew placed his arm about Roger’s

neck. “Mother would die heart broken. You are still her darling, and

will always be. I’m content to take second place in her affections, and

Roger you must not become morbid. It’s the worst thing you can possibly

do. Come, let us go up to the house, and I will play on my violin, and

so chase dull care away.”

Andrew scrutinized Victoria’s face when next he saw her, but it was

serene and unconscious. “She does not care a rap for Roger,” he thought

exultantly, “for she could never hide it so admirably. She would betray

herself by word or action.” Which shows that Andrew knew but little of

the sublime duplicity of woman.

That night the doctor came, and when morning dawned fair and rosy, Roger

was told what to him seemed his death-warrant. Out under the nodding

trees, arm and arm, the great oculist and Roger paced, while gently as a

mother could have done, the man of science old in years, explained to

the young man just on the threshold of a long life, why he could never

again look upon the faces of those he loved, or study nature in all its

varied forms. Roger listened in silence, then, as they approached the

old stone seat, he said: “Leave me here, doctor, I would be alone.” The

doctor was deceived by Roger’s calmness and left him. The stricken man

buried his face in his hands, and listened to the doctor’s retreating

footsteps. “He will soon be out of sight and hearing,” he murmured,

“then I will go my way, and nobody will be the wiser until too late.

Will she shed one tear for me, I wonder? Yes, I reckon she will. She is

tender-hearted, and she will grieve with my mother. Poor mother, _she_

loves me, but oh, I cannot live with this load at my heart. An object of

pity, tolerated, where once I was the most sought after. Is it wicked, I

wonder, to take one’s own life under such circumstances? God knows, and

I will know soon. Let me think. I used to know just how many paces to

take from this old stone to the lake. Ah, yes, it is fifteen. I was just

that age when I fashioned this seat. I have a ’kerchief of Victoria’s

which I stole one day. It is perfumed with vervaine. How I love the

odor! How I love the owner of this little dainty square!”

He took the ’kerchief from his breast pocket and kissed it. Then holding

it tightly in one hand, he began to measure off the paces toward the

lake, counting them aloud as he paced. When he had reached the

thirteenth, a pair of arms were suddenly thrown around him, and

Victoria’s voice cried: “Roger, what would you do? Destroy two lives

instead of one?”

“Victoria, you here!” exclaimed Roger. “Why did you come so soon? If you

had only waited a few moments—just a few moments.”

“Ah, but I could not wait, dear Roger; something compelled me to seek

you, and having found you in the act of self-destruction, I have

detained you long enough to say, that if you are still bent on drowning,

go ahead; but I warn you that you will have to answer to God for two

lives.”

“What do you mean?” gasped Roger, clutching Victoria’s arm.

“I mean that if you go, I go too.”

“Victoria!”

“Well, I am here.”

“Did I hear aright?”

“I am within good hearing distance. You could not have misunderstood me

very well.”

“Are you willing to brave death with me?”

“Yes, if you are still bent on suicide, but I would much prefer to live

with you on good solid pork and potatoes. We could get more fun out of

it. Oh, Roger, if you only knew how ridiculous you looked measuring off

those fifteen paces.”

Now no person about to commit suicide likes to be laughed at, and as

Victoria’s gay laugh rang out, Roger’s face looked uncommonly silly.

“Um,” he said gloomily, “how long had you been here before you spoke,

Victoria?”

“Oh for quite a while, sir knight of the rueful countenance. I saw the

doctor returning alone, so as I had something to whisper into your ear

when no one was by, I hastened down to the old stone seat.”

“Were you there when I kissed your ’kerchief?”

“Right behind you, and I didn’t admire your taste at all. I considered

the kisses wasted when you might have had the owner. Oh, you stupid,

silly boy, must I do all the courting?”

Roger grasped Victoria’s hands and held them tightly, while a great hope

shone in his face.

“Victoria, you are not trifling with me? What means this sudden change

in you? Yesterday you drew your hand away as if in displeasure at what I

said, and you have seemed to avoid me ever since. I have not dared to

hope.”

Victoria laughed. “Do you not remember, Roger, that Andrew came upon the

scene just as you asked me that question? Do you suppose I cared to make

a third party an interested listener? I am here to give you my answer,

which I hope will please you. It is, that I love you, eyes or no eyes;

that I am willing to face anything so long as you are by my side.”

Roger drew her to him, and laid her sunny head upon his shoulder. “My

loved one, dare I take this blessed hope to my bosom? Are you sure that

it is not pity which prompts you, and that you are not making a

sacrifice for my sake?”

Victoria took his face in her hands and kissed his sightless eyes. “It

is no sacrifice on my part, dear Roger. I worshiped your picture before

I ever knew you. I have loved you always, I think. Just because you are

blind, should I cease to love you?”

“Oh, God, I thank Thee!” cried Roger. “I thank Thee for the gift of a

true, pure woman’s love, which Thou has sent me in this my hour of

need.” He bared his head, and turned his sightless eyes toward the

heavens. Then placing an arm about Victoria’s neck, he kissed her

reverently upon the forehead. “What a magic healer is this divine love,

dear sweetheart. An hour ago I longed for death. Now I long to live, for

I have been given new life by one who loves me. Ah, how blessed am I to

be made the recipient of such an affection. God bless you, my own.”

Victoria gently led him to the old stone seat. “Then you have entirely

given up the idea of a watery grave?” she asked, banteringly, as they

were seated.

He placed both arms around her, and laid his head upon her shoulder.

“Don’t mention it again, dear love. Think if you had come too late.”

“Ah, but I determined yesterday not to leave you for one moment alone. I

watched the doctor and you. I was not far behind you when he left you. I

had you in surveillance, young man, and from this moment I constitute

myself your private detective.”

CHAPTER VI.

The lovers walked back to the house planning their future. Mary, who had

been anxiously waiting for Roger, met them as they entered. Roger had

been extremely melancholy for several days, and Mary feared the effects

of the doctor’s decision upon his nervous system, but as she saw his

beaming countenance, and the tender smile which he bestowed upon

Victoria, she realized that something wonderful had happened.

“Here is your mother, dear Roger,” whispered Victoria. “Shall we tell

her?”

“Of course, no one will rejoice more than she. Dear mother, the very

dearest mother in all the world, I’ve found a daughter for you. She has

promised to be my wife. Wish me joy, for joy unspeakable is mine.”

Mary clasped Victoria in her arms. “My precious child, I have prayed for

this day, but I did not think my prayers would be answered so soon.

Thank God for his goodness.” She kissed Roger tenderly. “So the doctor’s

decision had no terrors for you, my son?”

“Not after this blessing came to me, dear mother. An hour ago I was

bewailing my fate. Now I am the happiest man alive. Nothing can terrify

me so long as I have the assurance of this dear girl’s love. God bless

her.”

Victoria ran laughing from the room, only to meet her mother in the

hall. “Whither so fast, my dear?” called Lady Vale.

“You are wanted in the library,” was all the reply Victoria made.

Lady Vale was far from pleased at the news which Mary hastened to

impart. She had indeed promised Mary that she would not interfere

between the young people, if they chose to love each other, but she had

relied on Victoria’s good sense in avoiding anything approaching

tenderness on Roger’s part, and she had been so imprudent as to fall in

love herself. Lady Vale had different views regarding Victoria’s future.

There were many brilliant parti’s in England. Men of noble birth, who

were sure to succeed in life, and who could place Victoria on the

highest round of the ladder. What imbecility to bury herself in this

obscure place, just because of her generosity of heart, and womanly

sympathy, had led her to think she loved a blind man. Lady Vale set her

thin lips quite firmly together, as she noticed Mary’s radiant face and

Roger’s evident happiness.

“Ah, Augusta, how happy we shall all be here together,” said Mary, “for

of course you will dispose of your English estates, and live here with

us. This house is large enough for half a dozen families.”

“Are you not looking too hastily into the future, my friend?” said Lady

Vale, coldly. “Victoria has more than myself to consult. She is not yet

eighteen. Her guardian’s consent is needed. She is much too young to

think of marrying. Sir William Pelham will at least think so, I am sure.

He has full control of her until her eighteenth birthday. I can do

nothing.” She did not add that she would lose no time in penning a

letter to Sir William, enjoining him in strictest confidence to withhold

his consent to this to her distasteful marriage. Her speech was like a

cold-water douche to her hearers.

“How soon will she become eighteen?” asked Roger.

“Next December.”

“Then will she be free to do as she chooses?”

“She does not come into her dower until she is twenty-one,” replied Lady

Vale, evasively.

“But she can marry at the age of eighteen?” persisted Roger.

“No doubt she can,” returned Lady Vale, “but girls at that age are

fickle. She may have changed her mind by then.”

Mary looked sadly at her friend. She saw that Lady Vale was far from

pleased at Victoria’s choice, and as she thought of it she could hardly

blame her. If she had been blessed with a lovely high-born daughter,

would she willingly have consented to her wedding a comparative nobody;

moreover one so afflicted as Roger? She laid her hand on Lady Vale’s

shoulder. “Dear Augusta, let the children settle this matter between

them. If Victoria repents of her choice; if she wishes at any time to be

released, Roger will immediately give her her freedom. Is it not so, my

son?”

“Most assuredly so, mother. I have no wish but for Victoria’s complete

happiness. She shall not be bound by any promise, except by her own

sweet will. I am human enough to be selfish, and to crave her love and

care, but I am not so selfish that I will not seek her happiness before

my own.”

Lady Vale smiled and placed her hand in Roger’s. “Then you do not insist

upon an engagement, or a formal announcement of marriage until Victoria

is her own mistress? I have no need to write to Sir William.”

“That is for Victoria to decide, Lady Vale. I leave her free to do as

she chooses. Whatever she thinks is right will please me.”

Lady Vale cordially shook his hand, and after kissing Mary, left the

room in search of Victoria. She had already decided that the quicker

they left for England, the better it would be for all concerned.

Victoria, parted from Roger, would soon forget him, and once back at

Valecourt, Lady Vale would see to it that her daughter never held any

communication with her blind lover. She found Victoria in their private

apartments, busily engaged in giving her French poodle a bath.

“So my daughter, who has never seemed anything but a child to me, loves

somebody else better than her old mother, and is going to forsake her,”

and Lady Vale kissed Victoria while a convenient tear dropped on her

cheek.

“Oh, no, mamma, I am not going to forsake you. We can all live here so

cosily together, and you ought not to say that I love somebody better

than you. Did you love grandma less because you loved papa too? Of

course I love Roger, but it is a different love than that which I bear

you.”

“You forget, my love, how impossible it would be for me to live here

altogether. I must be at Valecourt a part of the year. It is high time

we were returning now. We had better start in a few days. It is

considered highly improper to remain in the house with your _fiancé_.

Victoria stopped scrubbing the poodle, and looked with astonished eyes

at her mother. “But, mamma, I cannot leave Roger. We are to be married

so soon it would be hardly worth our while to leave and then come back.

It would be better to all go together.”

“Indeed?” interrogated Lady Vale, slightly raising her eyebrows, “and

may I ask when you intend becoming Mrs. Willing?”

“Well, we thought in a month, sure, mamma. Roger needs me now if at any

time, and I don’t see what we want to wait for. Of course we shall be

married quietly, and that will please both of us.”

“You certainly have not lost any time in arranging matters, Victoria;

you seem to have forgotten that Sir William must be consulted, and that

your mother requires a certain amount of obedience shown her.”

Victoria opened her eyes quite wide. “Why, mamma, I never dreamed that

you would have the slightest objection. I have been so used to doing as

I thought best, that I never once thought but what you would be as

delighted as Roger’s mother. She certainly does not object, and what has

Sir William to say about it?”

“He can say a great deal, my child. If you marry without his consent

before you are eighteen, your landed estates go to me, to hold until my

death. Then they revert to your cousin, Dora Vale. There is but very

little ready money you know. Less than a thousand pounds I think.”

“But why should Sir William refuse to let me marry whom I wish?”

“For the very same reason your dear papa would have if he were alive. He

would say that you were too young to know your own mind. Come, Victoria,

listen to reason. Let us go back to England, to dear old Valecourt. I

promise not to interfere between you and your love, but take plenty of

time to make your decision, then when you are eighteen, if you are still

of the same mind, I will not withhold my consent to your marriage, after

a suitable time, say two or three years.”

“Two or three years!” gasped Victoria. “Why that is an eternity. How

nice it is to have somebody map out your life for you. Oh no, mamma, we

don’t wait two years or even two months. I don’t wish to seem

disrespectful to you in what I am saying, but I think I am old enough to

know my own mind, and not to be treated like a great baby. Roger would

die before the two years were passed, and so would I. If Sir William

chooses to withhold his consent, he may for all us, and Dora Vale is

welcome to the estates. They will be a Godsend to the poor girl. She is

a governess, or something, is she not? If justice were hers half of it

would belong to her. Just because her father married beneath him, as

grandpapa thought, he must needs be cut off with the proverbial

shilling. Turn about is fair play, I’m sure. If I marry without Sir

William’s consent, I only return to Dora what is rightfully her own.”

Lady Vale shook her head. “Headstrong like your father,” she said,

turning to leave the room. “The least opposition to your wishes only

makes you the more determined, but I warn you, Victoria, while there is

yet time, to pause, and reason whether it will give you pleasure to

offend your parent for the whim of a moment. I do not easily forgive.”

She went out leaving Victoria sitting on the floor of the bath-room,

holding the dripping poodle in her arms. “Flotsie, mamma’s the angriest

I ever have seen her, but we don’t care. She wants me to do as she

likes, and I want to do as I like, and I’ll win the day, of course. She

can’t remain angry with her only daughter so very long.”

Flotsie shook her long, silky ears, and barked intelligently, and so the

conference ended.

Lady Vale exploded a bomb at the luncheon table by quietly saying: “A

sailing vessel starts for Queenstown next Wednesday. I have written to

engage passage for myself and Victoria. We have had a most enjoyable

time here, and have staid much longer than we should have done. It will

be early September ere we reach home, and we have many important

engagements for September.”

Her announcement was received with different emotions, by the different

persons assembled around the table.

Andrew, who had been away all the morning, and who therefore had not

heard of the important event which had happened in his absence, looked

up with a strange sinking at the heart. To lose Victoria now meant

certain failure. He was gaining more influence over her every day, and

it would be only a question of time, when he could keep her under his

mesmeric power for hours if he chose, and then he would be able to carry

out the plan he had formed. He must in some way thwart Lady Vale, and

prevent her from leaving America for some time at least.

“You must not think of leaving us for months yet,” he said. “We are only

just getting acquainted. We had counted upon having you with us all

winter, had we not, mother?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mary, casting an appealing glance at Victoria. “How

can we part with Victoria, who has grown to be one of us?” She divined

Lady Vale’s intentions regarding her daughter, and felt sad accordingly.

Roger said nothing, but his face which had seemed so radiant a few

moments ago, looked gray and troubled. Victoria was watching her lover.

She saw the shadows fall upon his face, and her own clouded while she

glanced at her mother with flashing eyes. “Mamma may go, if she chooses,

but _I_ stay here.”

“Open war is declared,” exclaimed Andrew, laughing, who thought Victoria

only in fun.

“Yes, it is open war,” replied Victoria, rising and moving to Roger’s

side. “Mamma knew my plans before luncheon. She thinks to frustrate them

by taking me back to England, and so separate me from Roger, but I have

promised him never to leave him, and I shall keep my word.”

Roger turned his head, and kissed his sweetheart’s hand, which was lying

on his shoulder.

Andrew started to his feet. “Never leave him,” he repeated. “Do you mean

to say that you are going to marry my brother?”

“Why not,” replied Victoria, quickly. “Is there any law to prevent it?”

Andrew saw that his violent emotion was drawing attention toward

himself, so with an effort he mastered his passion and became seated,

saying with a laugh which sounded forced: “Well, this is the greatest

surprise I ever experienced. It nearly took my breath away. You two have

been uncommonly sly to spring so unexpected a pleasure upon the rest of

us poor mortals. It is not too late for congratulations, I hope?”

“Oh, no,” replied Victoria, blushing as she felt Andrew’s piercing eyes

bent upon her. “It only happened this morning, and it seems not to have

met with the approval of all concerned.”

“I am delighted,” said Andrew, rising and taking Victoria’s hand. “Roger

is to be congratulated, and so are we all for gaining such an

acquisition to our family.”

Mary rose and went over to Lady Vale. “I am sure you will withdraw your

decision of so soon returning home, dear Augusta, now that you see how

united we may all become.”

“I shall sail on Wednesday, and Victoria will accompany me,” replied

Lady Vale with more haughtiness in her manner than the gentle Mary had

ever witnessed.

Roger arose and, led by Victoria, left the room. They sought their

favorite seat near the lake. “Well, my darling,” said Roger sadly, “your

mother will prevail I suppose, and carry you away from me.”

“Never!” interrupted Victoria. “I’m not a baby in swaddling clothes.”

“But you are under age, pet. Your mother will influence that man, who is

your guardian, to be nasty toward us, and who knows what may happen

after we are separated. I am very much afraid we shall never meet again.

It is not as if I had my eyes, sweet one. Once I would have defied them

to have taken you away.”

“Do you care if I lose my estates, Roger? Would you take me poor as a

church mouse?”

“Do I care if you are poor? Why, my darling, I can’t begin to use the

money I have now, what would I do with more?”

“Then I’ll marry you to-morrow.”

“Your mother will never consent.”

“We will dispense with her consent, dear Roger. When we return to the

house man and wife she will bow to the inevitable, and laugh with the

rest of us. It’s a long ways off to my birthday. One hundred and fifty

days.” She said this so naively that Roger immediately took her in his

arms and kissed her repeatedly. “Oh, my angel, what an age to be kept in

durance vile.”

“Yes, Roger, an awfully long time, and so many things can happen in that

time. All I lose by marrying you now are my estates, which will revert

to a little cousin whom I have seen but twice. Grandpapa disinherited

her father for daring to marry a governess, so papa got it all. Now

little Dora will get it back; that is when mamma is through with it, so

you see I am really playing the good Samaritan in two cases—marrying

you, and enriching Dora.”

“Ah, you witch,” cried Roger, catching her to him again. “Who could

resist your sweet persuasive tongue. Not I. Do with me what you will. We

cannot be married too soon to suit me. Shall we enlist Andrew in our

behalf?”

“No, no!” exclaimed Victoria quickly. “He—he—” she stopped confused.

“He—he—he what?” laughed Roger. “He don’t want you himself, does he?”

Victoria was silent. Roger held her with such force that she almost

screamed. “Has he ever made love to you, my darling?”

“Just a little, a long time ago, but I think he has given up all

thoughts of it lately.”

“Well I should hope he had,” said Roger, somewhat dryly.

“But do you know, Roger, dear, I am awfully afraid of him at times. He

has such a peculiar manner, and really fascinates me in a way I cannot

describe to you. I like him, and still I hate him. I am drawn toward

him, yet he repels me. Did you ever know of his having any mesmeric

power?”

“No, he was always a quiet fellow. I never understood him. There has

never been that love with us which is said to exist so strongly between

twins; but you are mine now, dearest; you will soon be his brother’s

wife, and as such are sacred. Now, when shall we be married,

sweetheart?”

“As soon as possible, Roger. We will confide in your mother. She will

help us out I know, and see to all things needful. Oh, love, it don’t

seem possible that I am so soon to be all your very own.”

CHAPTER VII.

The parties left by the young couple in the dining-room separated

without a word. Mary went to her own room in tears. She feared for Roger

if Victoria should leave him. He had confided to his mother how nearly

he had come to taking his life that day, and how he had been saved by an

angel. For the first time in the friendship of over forty years, Mary

felt her heart angered toward Lady Vale. She was taking the wrong course

to so oppose two such hot-headed people as Victoria and Roger, and Mary

resolved to go in search of her friend and lay the matter seriously

before her.

As for Andrew, his whole being was in a state of torment. The

announcement had come upon him so suddenly that he half doubted his own

ears and eyes. “Victoria in love with his blind brother? Absurd! Did not

_he_ control her heart? Was _he_ not gaining an influence over her

whereby she would in time be all his own? And did Roger think for a

moment that the prize was his? Well, he would soon let him know who held

the whip hand. He would mesmerize Victoria when he knew Roger was where

he could hear them, and then he would compel her to say things which

should cause Roger to believe her false. Oh, this was not a losing game

for him yet. Oh, no.”

He walked out of the house and toward the lake. As he neared the stone

seat he espied the lovers clasped in each other’s arms. The sight

maddened him. All the evil in his nature came to the surface. He turned

on his heel muttering, “Ah! how dearly shall he pay for every kiss

lavished upon her who is mine alone. Oh, how I hate him for coming

between us, for she was beginning to love me, I know it, but she shall

love me again, I swear it. Oh, if the devil were only here, so that I

might make a compact with him. How quickly would I sell my soul for the

price of her love.” He went into the summer-house and threw himself upon

the wooden seat, and abandoned his thoughts to wicked nefarious schemes,

whereby he might win Victoria from Roger.

Mary at once lent her ear to Victoria’s plans, but she first pleaded

with Lady Vale to consent to an early marriage. Lady Vale coldly

listened until Mary had pleaded her case, then she calmly answered that

she should take Victoria with her Wednesday, and leave the matter

entirely in the hands of Sir William, in whose wisdom and judgment she

had perfect faith. Mary left the room in despair, and sought Victoria to

whom she told her failure.

“I knew you would meet with no success,” replied Victoria. “Mamma is

very determined. So am I. Now, come, dear Mrs. Willing, you must see

about getting the necessary papers drawn up, as of course Roger cannot

be of much assistance, only by being present, and the speedier our

marriage is consummated the more at ease we shall feel.”

Andrew little thought, as he assisted Victoria to a seat in the family

carriage the next day, that he had touched for the last time Victoria

Vale’s hand. That when next he saw her she would be Victoria Willing. He

would not have worn so confident an air as he watched the carriage

disappear, in which were also his mother and Roger, if he had suspected

that his brother was about to make his own the girl who _he_ considered

was already within _his_ power.

The three occupants of the carriage were strangely silent for a wedding

party. Mary held Roger’s hand within her own. He frequently raised the

slender hand to his lips in mute silence. She knew his thoughts. They

were full of gratitude for what she was doing, and although her heart

misgave her, she would have dared much more for the pleasure of seeing

her darling son happy.

Victoria looked out the carriage-window at the trees, whose branches

seemed to wave her a friendly adieu. She could almost hear them sigh:

“Farewell, Victoria Vale. Adieu, fair maiden. When next we see thee,

thou shalt be a loved and loving wife. Thou wilt have taken upon thyself

vows which God alone can’st break.” She glanced at Roger, whose

sightless eyes were turned toward her, and whose face expressed the joy

which was in his heart. Did she regret the step which she was about to

take? Not at all. She felt no misgivings for the future, only an

ecstatic joy; a sense of sweetest rest. She trusted that God’s blessing

was resting upon her, although she was disobedient to her mother.

Two hours later as the sun was just sinking, leaving a trail of crimson

glory on “the Five Gables,” the carriage deposited the three

conspirators at the marble steps of the grand entrance. Victoria,

immediately upon alighting, slipped her arm through Roger’s. “Come, my

husband, let us go and make our peace with mamma.” She led him to her

mother’s apartments. Lady Vale was superintending the packing of two

huge boxes, and looked up as the door opened and the two culprits stood

before her. Something in their faces warned her of what was coming. Her

face became stern and cold. “Well, you two are married?” she said,

before either could speak.

Victoria gave a little scream and cried: “Who could have told you?”

“Your faces are the tale bearers,” returned Lady Vale. “You do not need

to utter a word. I am not going to heap reproaches upon your heads as

you evidently expect, and then mildly pronounce a blessing over you. All

that I might, can, or shall say, will be communicated to you by my

lawyer. From this hour I have no child. Victoria has chosen a man whom

she has known scarcely two months, in preference to the mother who bore

her, and who has loved her devotedly. So let it be. I do not love her

any more, and I warn her that God will visit his wrath justly upon her,

as he does on all disobedient children. No good can spring from this

hasty marriage. Nothing but evil.”

“Mother!” cried Victoria, springing toward Lady Vale, “you are not

cursing me?”

“No, Victoria. God shall curse you; not I. Leave me now, I do not wish

to see you again while I remain. Rachel will soon have all the boxes

belonging to me filled. Then I shall start for New York.”

“No, no! dear mother, stay here with us. I cannot have you go away with

such a bitter feeling in your heart toward Roger and me. Or if you go,

let us go with you. Forgive us, darling mamma. See, I kneel to you.”

Victoria sank upon her knees and threw her arms about Lady Vale. “I do

not love you the less for loving Roger too, dear mamma. Will you not

make us happy by giving us your blessing?”

Lady Vale disengaged her daughter’s clinging arms. “Arise, Victoria,

your pleadings are but a mere form. No loving, obedient daughter, could

have so disgraced her mother as you have done this day. Did I not tell

you that I had no daughter?”

Victoria gave a low wail as if struck to the heart, essayed to rise from

her knees, but ere she could regain her feet she fell forward in a dead

faint, breathing the name of “Roger” as she fell.

Lady Vale gazed upon the prostrate form of Victoria while Roger swiftly

groped his way to her side. “Oh, God, if I could but see!” he cried. He

kneeled and took his wife in his arms, softly stroking her face. Lady

Vale pulled the bell cord, at the same time telling her maid Rachel to

bring water.

Roger turned his sightless eyes in the direction of Lady Vale, his fine

face aglow with indignation. “Madam,” he said slowly, “we may have

incurred your displeasure, but we are not deserving of such bitter anger

as you have shown. For myself I do not care. I shall endeavor to bear up

against God’s wrath, which you seem to think will be so plentifully

showered upon us; but my wife, by right of law, I am bound to honor and

protect, you have used words toward her this day which I, for one, shall

be slow to forget. In all courtesy to you as my mother’s guest, I cannot

turn you from her house, but Victoria is mine. No earthly power can take

her from me, and I advise you not to try it.”

At this moment Mary appeared at the door followed by two servants. “What

has happened?” she cried, as she saw the agitated face of her son, with

Victoria’s senseless form in his arms.

“Mother, I wish the servants to take Victoria to my apartments. I will

explain matters when we are alone.”

Lady Vale turned suddenly toward Mary. “Did you have a hand in this

scheme to rob me of my daughter, Mrs. Mary Willing?”

Mary started at the unwonted usage of her full name by one who had never

called her anything but “Mary.” “I was present at the marriage of

Victoria and my son. It was no scheme, and nobody has tried to rob you

of your daughter.”

“You have said enough,” returned Lady Vale, shrugging her shoulders. “I

have lost a friend as well as a daughter,” and with these words she

passed into an adjoining room, closing the door after her.

Mary stood completely unnerved gazing at the closed door, while the

servants who were supposed to be without eyes or ears at such times,

tenderly lifted Victoria and bore her to Roger’s apartments. “Are you

here, mother?” he asked. Mary roused herself from the semi-stupor which

seemed to have taken possession of her. “Yes, my son.”

“Then give me your arm, and while we are walking through the halls I

will tell you of Lady Vale’s unjust anger.”

Mary felt saddened at what Roger told her, and as she helped to restore

Victoria to sensibility, she wondered if Lady Vale had ever possessed a

heart, for to one of Mary’s gentle nature, the course which Victoria’s

mother had taken, seemed cruel in the extreme; and when she witnessed

Victoria’s grief, which even Roger’s loving words and caresses could not

assuage, she went herself to plead her new daughter’s cause with the

incensed mother; but Lady Vale’s door was barred against all intruders,

and Rachel, with a dignity born of the quarrel between her superiors,

told Mary that her mistress would see no one, and that in two hours she

would be en route for New York. Lady Vale wished to leave the house as a

stranger. With these words Rachel closed the door in Mary’s face, who

walked sadly away. Ere she reached her room she met Andrew, who seemed

much agitated. As he caught sight of his mother his dark face became

more sullen and sinister, and he said as he grasped her arm: “What is

this that I hear the servants gossipping over and commenting upon? Is it

true that Victoria has married Roger, and that _you_ and the coachman

were the only witnesses of the ceremony?” Mary trembled, for so she had

seen her husband many times when in a fury. “Speak, woman!”

Mary raised her eyes. “Woman!” she echoed. “Is it thus that you address

your mother, Andrew?”

Andrew bent until his face nearly touched Mary’s. “Yes, woman!” he

repeated. “By what other name shall I call you? Do you know that I am

going mad? That a thousand demons are whispering horrible things into my

ears? Do you know that you have helped to rob me of the only thing I

ever loved on earth? Great God! What shall I do if I have lost her!”

Andrew’s mad ravings were too much for Mary’s already overtaxed nerves,

and without a word, but with a horror in her eyes which Andrew never

forgot, she fell as one dead at his feet. In an instant Andrew’s passion

cooled. He took his mother in his arms and bore her to her room. The

drawn look about her mouth frightened him. Something peculiar in the set

lines of her face warned him that this was more than a mere fainting

fit. He rang for assistance and sent a man on the swiftest horse for

medical aid. When it came Mary was beyond all earthly cares and sorrows.

Kind and willing hands labored unceasingly for hours over the still

form, but to no purpose. Life had fled, and when Lady Vale left “The

Gables,” she knew not that the soul of its beloved mistress had also

left it never to return, nor did she know, until months had passed.

Roger seemed stupefied at this awful blow which had fallen without

warning, and helplessly clung to Victoria, who roused herself to act

when she divined the truth. It was she who thought of everything,

proving herself such a treasure that Andrew’s admiration grew, and even

in his sorrow at his mother’s death, his scheming brain was busily

trying to divine how best to separate Roger from the girl who he would

not acknowledge was his brother’s wife. She was his own still. He had

proved _that_ in Roger’s very presence, by merely taking her hand in his

and stroking it gently, while he spoke of what great pleasure it gave

him to welcome her as a sister. What comfort would be Roger’s with such

a loving companion, and although their mother’s death had been most

untimely, she must not regard it as an evil omen following so closely

upon the marriage. All the while he talked he noticed with satisfaction

that she did not shrink from his touch, but gradually leaned toward him

until her head rested upon his shoulder, and she lay passive in his

arms. He looked over to Roger whose sorrowful face and sightless eyes

should have appealed to his heart, but Andrew had no heart, except where

his own interests were concerned, and he looked at his brother, so

unconscious of the wrong he was doing him, and thought how he would stab

him through this fair creature who was controlled by his will to do his

bidding, and who would not disobey him, even though he told her to kill

the husband whom she adored.

BOOK THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER.

“The Five Gables” is not much the worse for the wear and tear of fifteen

summers and winters. It still stands an irregular shape on the high

bluff looking down on its humbler neighbors as if proud of its ugly

magnificence. But if the mansion has not changed, can the same be said

of the dwellers therein? Let us see. No one will forbid us walking up

the steps of the porch, and entering the low window which leads into

what seems to be a study and library in one. A man sits at an open desk

busily engaged in writing. His black hair is plentifully streaked with

grey. His face, although not old, has deep lines graven upon it which

ought not to be seen on any but one bowed down with a weight of sin. His

eyes are peculiarly sad, and have a hunted look, strange in its

intensity, as he looks up from his writing to welcome a tall, fair

woman, who opens the door and comes swiftly to his side, laying a white

hand on his shoulder. “Still pouring over those old law papers, Andrew?”

she said, playfully placing her other hand over the closely written

sheets of foolscap. “Why you are making an old man of yourself, working

so persistently, you spend the greater part of your time in this musty

old study. Every night you have a repast served to you here, and I am

sure there are times when you do not retire until the wee small hours.

Why do you toil so laboriously? Surely we have an abundance of riches,

more than we can ever use. Then why not take a little recreation

occasionally? I scarcely see you except at meal hours, and very often

those too are spent by you here.”

Andrew turned his head and pressed his lips to the hand still resting on

his shoulder. “Have I been so lacking in husbandly care, that you are

forced to complain of being neglected, my dear wife? Forgive me, sweet

one. Come in front of me that I may see your face. Ah, there is a little

frown upon it which must be charmed away.” He rose and pressed an arm

around her, playfully tapping the tiny wrinkles on her forehead. She

laughed and pointed to the papers. “But you are evading my question,

Andrew. Is it necessary that you should dig and delve amongst these

musty old things the greater part of your time?”

“Highly necessary, my sweet wife, or I should not do it, rest assured of

that; but I hope to be soon through.”

“Ah, but you said that seven years ago. I don’t see as you are any

nearer through than then. Many people have remarked to me of your

altered appearance. Mrs. Bradley said yesterday, that you look like a

man who has a secret grief. Is there anything troubling you, Andrew? If

there is, can I know and share it with you?”

Andrew drew his wife’s head down upon his shoulder, so that she might

not see the look of anguish which he knew was on his face. His lips

trembled for a moment ere he replied, and he looked out of the window

wistfully, longingly, as if he were trying to banish an evil spirit or

conjure a protecting one. “What should trouble me, my sweetheart? Have I

not the dearest wife in all the land, the mother of my cherub child?

Mrs. Bradley is an old busy body, who delights in scenting mysteries.

Tell her if she inquires after my health again, that I am losing my

reason because of the fatality with which the number thirteen pursues

me. That will set her into a new train of thought. I believe number

thirteen is one of the hobbies she is riding at present.”

“Nonsense, Andrew, you are only fooling. You are too sensible to let

anything so simple annoy you, but I am forgetting my errand. We have an

invitation to a birthday fetê, and barbecue at Oakdale, the Parker’s

country seat, you know. The festivities are to occupy three days, and

they begin next week Tuesday. We can easily drive there in a day, by

resting our horses. We can start Monday and return Friday.”

Again Andrew’s face clouded with that indescribable melancholy look. “I

cannot go, dear one, but I will not deprive you of what I know may be

pleasure. Go, take Mary with you, and remain as long as you like.”

“There it is again, Andrew. You deprive yourself of all pleasure just

because of these old law papers. I have a mind to come in here some time

when you are out, and burn the whole business, only I can never gain an

entrance when you are not here. One would think you had treasures untold

stored here the way you guard this room. Why, Andrew, we have been

married seven years and we have never even taken our wedding journey.

You could never spare the time.”

Andrew stroked the little rings of hair from off his wife’s forehead,

and kissed her with a remorseful look in his eyes which she did not see.

“Do you chafe under this quiet home life, dear one? Would you like a

change? If so take our child and visit England.”

“Not without you, Andrew. When I have been absent for only a day I can

see how my absence annoys you. I can see with what joy I am welcomed

home again, and Andrew, it is not my neighbor alone who has noticed the

change in you. I, too, have watched this growing melancholy which shuts

you so completely within yourself. Sometimes I have seen you clasp Mary

to you with such fervor as to frighten the child, and your eyes look at

her so strangely, as if you feared some harm might come to her.”

Andrew unloosed his clasp and strode nervously to the window, and stood

for some time gazing out. What were his thoughts? Who but his God could

know? Suddenly he turned and once again took his wife in his arms.

“Victoria, have you ever regretted becoming my wife? Has there been at

any time cause for regret on your part?”

“Never, Andrew. You have been all that a most tender, devoted husband

could ever be. In fact when I have seen your anger displayed toward

others, I have often wondered how it is that to me, who gives you ample

provocation, you are so kind and tender.”

He placed his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. “Do you

still mourn for Roger? Are you satisfied with my love and devotion? Do

you think that if he had lived he could have cared for you better than

I?”

Victoria burst into tears. “You are cruel, Andrew. In this continual

referring to a dead past which can never be recalled, you hurt me. Have

I not told you that I can never love you with that freshness which I

gave to Roger? Were you not at the time contented to take me with a

bleeding heart, which since then God has mercifully healed by giving

unto me my blessed Mary? Why, then, will you persist in opening this old

wound?”

“Because I long for you to give me the same worshipping love which I

lavish upon you, dear wife.”

Victoria shook her head. “That would be impossible, Andrew. Even Roger,

though he loved me, did not give me the tender devotion which at all

times you have done. I hardly think any woman of my acquaintance can say

truthfully that in seven years of married life, they have never received

a word of blame or censure from their husbands. I am proud that I can

say it. Few women are blessed with such devotion as falls to my lot. No

woman lives who could return it in like manner.”

Andrew clasped her closer. “You love me better than you did at first,

Victoria?”

“Why should I not? To others you are cold and unapproachable. To me and

Mary you are all tenderness and love. God bless you.”

Andrew shivered as if a cold wind had penetrated his being, and put his

hand before his eyes. “Don’t, Victoria!” he said, in an unsteady tone.

“Ask God to curse me. If there be a God, He surely will.”

“Andrew, husband, I beg of you to cease that scoffing tone which seems

to be growing upon you. Say there is a God. Not ‘if there be a God.’ You

know there is, or why are we permitted to live? Do not let Mary grow up

with the knowledge of having an infidel father. For her sake, if not for

mine, be like other people. Accompany us to church next Sabbath. You

have never entered one since our marriage.”

“We will not argue this point, Victoria,” said Andrew, gently, but

firmly. “I shall never enter any church while I am in this frame of

mind. I am hypocrite enough without adding to my sin, God knows, if

there is such a being.”

“What sin, Andrew! Why do you speak so wildly?”

Andrew tried to laugh. “Are we not all sinners, Victoria, in the sight

of that God in whom you believe?”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Victoria. “We are, indeed, miserable sinners; but you

frightened me when you spoke so wildly, and you give rise to very

unpleasant comments by your morbid, unfriendly ways. Can I not coax you

to think better of your hasty decision, and so attend this barbecue with

me?”

“Ask anything of me but to absent myself from home, dear wife. That I

cannot do.”

Victoria turned to leave the room. Andrew’s troubled eyes followed her.

“You are not angry with me, Victoria?”

“No, it would be silly of me to become angry over so simple a thing, but

I am puzzled at your strange manner, Andrew. I fear you are concealing

something which I ought to know.”

Andrew sank into a chair as Victoria left the room, and as he laid his

head upon the table a heavy groan came from his white, trembling lips.

Now that he was alone all the gayety of manner assumed to deceive

Victoria left him, and the wretched man writhed in agony of spirit,

until the drops of moisture rolled from his face, and covered the

manuscript lying upon the table with great unsightly blots. “Concealing

something which she ought to know,” he murmured. “Great God! if she only

knew, if she only knew. If I dared tell her would the telling bring me

peace? Would it bring me a sweet dreamless sleep, such as I have not

known in fifteen years? Christ! Fifteen eternities have I lived in these

years, but if I tell her I shall loose her, and ah, more bitter still, I

shall loose my sunbeam, my little Mary. No, no, I can not, dare not tell

her. She is beginning to love me. In time she will forget _him_ and

then, ah, what bliss will be mine when I shall hear her say ‘I love thee

better than ever I loved thy brother.’ I scoff at religion in her

presence, and pretend that I think there is no God, but merciful Father!

do I not know that some day I shall be called to account for my crimes?

That there is no hope for me in this world nor the next? Then, how dare

I bend my knee in reverence and piety, when nothing but evil thoughts

throng my brain?”

At this moment the door quietly opened and the roguish face of a child

of six years peeped slyly in. Her laughing eyes grew serious as she

heard the sobs of her father. She held a hideous rag doll in her arms,

and as she stole on tip toe into the room, she placed one chubby finger

on the slit where the doll’s mouth was supposed to be and whispered:

“Don’t dare to breathe, Dinah. Don’t make the weentiest bit of noise,

for poor papa has one of his bad, nasty headaches, and you will be sent

from the room in disgrace. Now mind.” The child gravely put her hand

upon her father’s knee, and as he gave a guilty start, she asked: “Is it

very, very bad, dear papa? Can your comfort charm it away?”

Andrew snatched the child to his breast, and covered her face with

kisses. This little one was the only being in all the great world to

whom he dare show his heart. He nestled his face in the thick flaxen

curls on his darling’s head. He was called a hard man by his fellow men.

His servants knew him only as a relentless taskmaster, whose lightest

word must be obeyed, but the child in his arms had never heard one harsh

word from him, or seen other than a loving smile on her father’s face

when in his presence; and she gave him love for love. She passionately

adored the stern, gloomy-faced man, whose heart opened at her bidding as

a flower opens to the sun. “I told Dinah you was sick, and so she

mustn’t talk,” said the child, patting her father’s cheek, “and I think

she deserves a merit card for her good behavior. She hasn’t said a

word.”

The father started, and looked around the room, expecting to see a third

person, but seeing nobody, he said: “And who may Dinah be, my angel?”

Mary raised the dilapidated doll. “Just as if you didn’t know, Papa

Willing, when you have kissed my ownest own Dinah lots of times. There,

there, don’t cry, baby, because papa has forgotten you. We shall not

love him any more.” Mary soothed the imaginary crying baby so tenderly,

and with so sweet an air of gravity, much like Victoria when soothing

Mary’s childish grief, that Andrew laughed in spite of his gloomy

thoughts, and caught Mary’s face between his hands. “You are a little

witch,” he said, kissing the roguish face. “You are putting on all that

love. Dinah is only a bundle of rags. You don’t love her.”

“I truly do,” replied Mary, clasping Dinah closer. “I love her best of

all my children. She is _so_ sweet.”

“She must be,” laughed Andrew. “Why she is simply disreputable. Where is

the handsome Paris doll I gave you only last week?”

“Shut up in the clothes press. She put on airs before Dinah, just

because she had real eyes and hair. I could not have that, you know, so

into the clothes press she went, and she don’t come out until she begs

Dinah’s pardon.”

“And where is Miss Flora McFlimsey, who has been the reigning favorite

for quite a while?” asked Andrew, amused at the prattle of his innocent

child.

“Oh, I drowned her in the lake this morning. Tied a couple of stones to

her legs, and then threw her in; and oh, papa, she sunk beautiful, and

the cunningest little whirlpool came up where she dropped in.”

“Horrors!” ejaculated Andrew in feigned amazement. “What a blood-thirsty

little girl you are! Why, if I am permitted to ask, did you kill her?”

“I didn’t kill her, papa, only just drowned her. I know the very spot.

Dan can wade out and get her any time. I mean she shall stay there until

she becomes a better child. She hooked all the raspberry jam from the

preserve-closet, this morning.”

“You don’t tell me,” said Andrew, seriously. “How did you discover that

it was she?”

“Her face was covered with it, just actually ‘smeared’ as mamma says.”

“Was there any jam on your face, chickie?”

Mary looked up and caught the twinkle in her father’s eye.

“Only just a little, where I happened to kiss Flora before she was

washed.”

“Oh, you are a sham,” laughed Andrew, hugging the little maid close to

his heart. “Have you told mamma about the jam?”

“Not yet, papa. I heard the groom telling the stable boy yesterday,

‘never to do anything to-day that he could put off till to-morrow,’ so I

think I’ll not tell mamma till to-morrow.”

“What a philosopher I have here,” said Andrew, drawing the flaxen curls

through his fingers, “but did you not misunderstand Teddy? Did he not

say: ‘Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day?’”

“He may have said that,” replied Mary, nodding her small head, “but I

like the other way a heap better.”

“You are not alone, dear child,” said Andrew, a gloom settling upon his

face again. “Most people like to transpose the good old adage. I among

them,” he sighed.

Mary looked up quickly. She was quick to note these sudden changes in

her father. “I love you, papa. I do love you, best of anybody in all

this world.”

“Do you love me better than you love your mamma?” whispered Andrew

longingly.

The child laid her cool cheek against the hot face of her father, and

clasped him about the neck. “I love you first; then I love mamma; next I

love Grandma Willing, who has gone to heaven, and then I love Dinah.

Poor Dinah. Teddy threw her into a bucket of dirty water yesterday, and

she doesn’t look very clean, and then the mean thing laughed, so he

did.”

Oh, what sweet music was the prattle of this child to Andrew. Her baby

love and caressing ways was all the heaven which he ever expected to

enjoy. With his child in his arms he forgot for a time the sword of

Damocles suspended by a hair, and which might fall at any moment and

crush him. Few moments in Andrew Willing’s life could justly be called

happy ones, but when he looked back over the sin-laden years, he did not

regret what he had done, except that the knowledge of his sin being

known might tear from him the only two beings whom he loved. He looked

after Mary as she ran from the room hugging the beloved Dinah. “Proclaim

my sin,” he murmured, “and by so doing become a jail-bird, shut away

forever from my wife and child? Never! I may suffer all the tortures of

the dammed, but I will still keep my secret. I must go more into

society, or Victoria, with her keen intuition, will surely discover

something, and I must also fill the house with guests. It will, perhaps,

serve to drive these demons away which so harass me.”

He stepped out of the window, went down the veranda steps, and took the

avenue leading to the lake. With bent head and eyes fixed moodily upon

the ground, he walked along. He was envied by many people for his wide

domains and apparent prosperity. Men who had met with adversity would

turn to their neighbors and say: “Talk of luck, why look at Andrew

Willing. He is the luckiest dog going. Everything he touches turns to

gold. His tobacco crops are always the finest. His negroes never sicken

and die. Everything runs smoothly with him. Even his blind brother was

conveniently killed in a railway accident, and Andrew profits again as

usual by taking the fair widow along with the property.” But if these

men could have looked deep into this wretched man’s heart; if they could

have known the misery and tortures which every hour in the day he

endured, then would their envy have been turned to pity, guilty though

he might be. Andrew had been trying for ten years to stifle his

conscience, which seemed to grow more active with advancing years, and

would not be stilled. At the turn in the avenue he stopped, and looked

back at the old gabled house in which he had spent so many happy hours;

which also held the beings whom he adored, but alas, a home filled with

grinning demons, whose devilish, hideous whisperings in his ears

whenever he entered, were driving him to the verge of madness. He smote

his breast remorsefully as his eyes wandered over the house, and rested

for a moment on the highest gable which had once been the room of his

father’s favorite slave, but whose stained glass windows had been

boarded up for over thirty years. “Peace, peace!” he cried. “Will I ever

know peace again until I have made reparation to those I have wronged?

And when I have done so, what then? A felon’s cell or a suicide’s grave

will be all I shall have to look forward to. Oh, God! I cannot. I

cannot. Let fate do her worst. I will keep my secret.”