Andrew’s illness was of long duration, and Victoria had worn herself
almost to a shadow in her efforts to nurse him without any help, except
what the doctor and Adam, who was not always at liberty, could give her.
She had plenty of time for serious thought while in the sick room. In
fact she thought too much, and brought upon herself that most dreadful
of all maladies, insomnia. Sometimes, after being all night beside
Andrew, attending to the many wants which an invalid requires, she would
seek her couch almost dead for the want of sleep, only to find as her
head touched the pillow, that all desire for sleep had left her, and
that her eyes would not remain closed; while strange fancies and wild
thoughts ran riot in her brain; and she often rose from her pillow
unrefreshed by not so much as a half hour’s sleep. She did not tell the
doctor, for every day, she thought, would be the last of her miserable
feelings, and she would then find rest. She did not neglect the poor
invalid in the Western gable. Many hours when she should have been
resting were spent by her in trying to bring light to the darkened mind.
Her bitterest tears were shed in that room where Adam was the only
witness. She acknowledged to herself with sorrow and shame, that her
wifely love for Roger was forever dead. That the man who ruined her
life, held her heart by a cord which she would not break if she could.
With every feeble throb of his pulse she felt her love grow stronger,
and she knew that if he died her soul would follow his. Her love for
Roger was in a great measure the same which she felt for Mary, a
brooding motherly love, tender in the extreme, yet so different from the
fiery flame which burned her whenever she heard Andrew calling her in
tones of passionate entreaty, though the tongue which uttered them was
inflamed by fever, and the man knew not what he said.
He had been ill three weeks, and in all that time not a gleam of
consciousness had shown in the fever-lighted eyes. No ray of light had
come to the clouded brain. Victoria hung over him, watching his every
motion, praying for returning reason, while in those three weeks he
lived over the ten years of his sin-laden life. Victoria listened,
sometimes in tears, and again in keenest pity, while the tongue which
had so faithfully guarded the stricken man’s secret was now loosened,
and ran on, and on unceasingly, babbling into the ears of the woman he
had loved and wronged, all those things which he had so jealously kept
from her.
He told of how in the early days of their meeting he had not cared for
her, but after a time her loveliness dawned upon him, and grew, and
grew, until from a trifling friendship it had developed into a passion
which only death could quench. At such times he would clasp Victoria
around the neck with almost the light of reason in his eyes, and calling
her “mother,” would tell her of the sweet fair English girl who had
stolen his heart only to break it. Victoria’s tears fell like rain on
the hot purple lips of the sick man, as she listened to his ravings, but
not a tear dimmed the brilliancy of the burning eyes fixed upon her’s.
He seemed to know that she wept, for he would say: “Don’t cry, mother.
You are too young and beautiful to weep, although your hair _is_ white,
and you love Roger better than you do me. I have become used to that,
but mother,” and here his voice would become shrill and discordant, and
his features fierce and repellant, “Roger must not steal everything from
me; he must leave my beautiful angel with the pure white wings for me to
love. I will kill him else.”
Then, perhaps, for a few moments, the burning eyes would droop only to
be raised again, with a fiercer light gleaming in them, while he fought
with imaginary demons, all bearing the form of Roger, who wanted to take
from him his beautiful angel with the pure white wings, whose earthly
name had been Victoria. Then for a time he lived over again that
dreadful railroad accident, whereby Roger was supposed to have lost his
life. With the cunningness of insanity, he would look up into Victoria’s
face and laughingly ask her “if she knew who Roger Willing was, and
where he was buried. How I have longed to tell Victoria something,” he
would say. “What a mockery her flowers seemed when laid upon the grave
of an unknown, while Roger was sleeping—ah, where was he sleeping? If I
tell you, you will tell her, and then I shall lose you, for you will go
to Roger whom you always loved better than you did me, and who stole my
angel, my beautiful angel with the pure white wings, but he has paid for
it, paid for it dearly.”
Victoria, who longed to know the real facts relating to Roger’s escape
from death, questioned the sick man all that she dared to, but his lips
remained sealed until one day, as she was bending over him bathing his
face, he caught her hands, and, holding them with a grip of iron, he
shouted: “Ah! I know you at last. I have been trying to remember you for
centuries. You are the shade of that beautiful bride from whose arms I
tore the mangled remains of her husband, while not so much as a bruise
was on her lovely face. Ah, ha! You have found me at last. Well, now
that you have what are you going to do about it? He received Christian
burial. I will take you to his grave, all covered with daisies, and you
may find there, most any day, a fair woman—Oh, yes, far lovelier than
you, beg pardon—who weeps and mourns for him who lies beneath. She
thinks it is her husband. Only I know differently. _You_ will never
tell; you can’t, because you are a shade, and shades never return to
bother us; but then, if they don’t, how the deuce did you get here? Ah!
I see. I have become a shade; that explains it. Oh, of course, very
considerate of you to meet me to ask after the welfare of your beloved.
Did I not tell you he was well taken care of, while you were given a
pauper’s burial? Nobody ever took the pains to hunt _you_ up. Now go
away and don’t bother me. I’ve got no more to tell you.” Then,
exhausted, he would sink back upon the pillow, gasping for breath.
Perhaps it was his weakness which appealed to Victoria’s womanly heart.
Perhaps it was the strong love which even in his most agonizing moments
of pain, he never lost for “his angel.” In all those weary weeks he
never called for Victoria; he always spoke of her as if she had gone
away or was indeed an angel. To him Victoria was his mother, and her
touch soothed him when nothing else would, and many times he pleaded
with her to intercede with Victoria in his behalf. “She knows I adore
her,” he would cry. “Mother, she is angry with me. I cannot bear those
reproachful eyes forever fixed upon me. Tell her I did it because I
loved her so. Tell her nothing, however bad it might have been, that she
could ever do, would have turned my love from her. Ask her to forgive. I
know she will; she always had such a tender little heart. Tell her I
thought it no sin at first, because it brought her within my arms. My
arms which are empty now. Ask her if she remembers the night of the
ball, when she told me that she loved me, or was beginning to love me.
’Twas then I realized that heaven I had never expected to reach. Oh,
God, that night. Will it ever come back to me?”
Victoria buried her head in the pillow. “My heart is breaking,” she
cried, as the doctor lifted her wasted form as if it had been a child.
“Doctor, give me something to make me sleep. I have not slept for four
days or nights. If I might sleep to never waken more, how happy I should
be.”
“Think of your child, Mrs. Willing,” replied the doctor. “Think of all
those who are leaning upon you; who would be lost without you. You have
proven yourself one of a thousand in this severe trial. Be brave a
little while longer. Why did you not tell me of this insomnia? Of course
I will give you an opiate, and when you shall awaken, life will have put
on an entirely different hue, and there will also be a change in Andrew
for better or for worse. See, he sleeps. It will be either death or
life. Let us pray to God now, this instant. Which shall it be?”
Victoria, almost distracted by the fiery trial which she was undergoing,
looked at the sleeper with eyes of love. Then, raising those eyes to
heaven, she cried: “Death! Merciful Father, in Thine infinite pity, Thou
who knowest the frailties of the human heart and who chastises only by
love, let it be death which shall come to him who holds my heart and
will not let it go, for if it be life, what will become of us, who are
so weak?”
The doctor raised her from her knees and bore her to a couch. “God moves
in a mysterious way,” he said, gently stroking the beating veins in her
temples. “He does not always answer our prayers direct. Come, say with
me the Lord’s Prayer. It covers everything which we need. Will you say
it?”
“Yes,” replied Victoria, her eyes still upon the sleeping man; and with
her hands clasped within those of her untiring, faithful friend, she
repeated with him the simple yet restful prayer, which has brought peace
to so many aching hearts. As the doctor repeated “Thy kingdom come, Thy
will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven,” Victoria’s voice faltered,
and, bowing her head upon the physician’s arm, she cried: “No, no, I
cannot say that. It is _my_ will that I wish, not _His_. How _can_ I say
it, when my heart cries all the time for death, oblivion, forgetfulness?
God’s will may be to have him live. What, then, must be our future? Ah,
no, I cannot, dare not say what my heart rebels against. Think you that
I have the strength to live apart from him who draws me by a power I
cannot resist? Ah, no, dear friend; the spirit may be ever so willing,
but the flesh is woefully weak. There is no safety for either of us but
in death.”
For a time the doctor allowed her to indulge in the passionate grief,
which shook her frail form as a mighty storm sways a tender sapling.
Then, wetting a cloth with a strong æsthetic, he laid it over her face,
and presently her sobs ceased and she lay quiet. Removing the cloth, he
took her in his arms as he would a tired child, and laid her beside
Andrew. “If she awakens, she will remain quiet, knowing that the least
move may prove fatal to the invalid,” he said, watching the pale, worn
face. “Poor child! Her burden may become greater than she can bear, for
I notice a change in Andrew. I think he will live.”
It was hours before a single motion from either disturbed the
physician’s reverie. Then Andrew, with a deep sigh, opened his eyes.
They encountered the doctor’s. He approached the bed, placing his finger
upon his lips to enjoin silence, but Andrew could not have even
whispered. Keeping his eyes open was an exertion, and he soon closed
them; but in those few seconds the doctor had seen in the questioning
eyes the light of returning reason, and with a murmured “thank God,” he
set about preparing a cordial against the time when it should be needed,
for now he knew that Andrew had passed the crisis, and with good care
would live.
All physicians take a certain professional pride in having been
instrumental in saving a patient for whom they have labored, expecting
nothing but death. So it was with this good doctor. It had seemed a
hopeless case from the beginning. A case which held no promise of a
reward for his untiring efforts, and so, perhaps, his joy was greater
because this man’s life had been given to him in answer to his prayer.
For he had prayed that Andrew might live, just as fervently as Victoria
prayed that he might die. He foresaw a serious complication of affairs,
if Andrew should die. Much more serious than if he lived, especially so
for little Mary, upon whose innocent head would descend her father’s
sin. When Victoria should awaken refreshed in mind and body, he would
present all these things to her in a light which her clear common sense
must acknowledge as being the only way out of this almost insurmountable
difficulty. A way in which the family name could be saved from disgrace;
in which the dying man upstairs (for his days were numbered) could
peacefully pass away; in which the little child who had done no wrong
could be shielded from the world’s cruel tongue, which stabs
unmercifully from the back, whilst exhibiting a smiling face.
All this the kind friend determined should Victoria be made to see. As
for himself when his duty should have been done; when there remained no
more for him to do, he would again take up the monotonous routine of a
country physician’s life; not without a scar upon his heart, however.
These few weeks of close companionship with a woman superior in all
things to any he had ever known, had been dangerous in the extreme, and
he was conscious of it. He was a confirmed bachelor of fifty years. His
boast among his own sex was, that he had never been in love, nor had he
ever seen the woman who could tempt him to change his happy state, for
what he was sure would be a most unhappy one. He had been the Willing’s
family physician for eighteen years. He had been present at every death,
at every birth, within that time. He had been a trusted and tried friend
of the family outside his professional capacity. He had looked upon
Victoria almost as a father might have done, but he found as the days
went by, that he had more than a father’s love for the sad, sweet-faced
woman, who bore her burdens so uncomplainingly, and who was living up to
her faith so far as the light had been shown her.
Unlike most professional men the doctor was a thorough Christian. He
carried his faith into his work, not obtrusively; no person could say
that of him. Yet when called to a patient who had never employed him
before, that patient knew ere the doctor left the room that he was a
servant of the Lord. So when he saw that Victoria was becoming every day
more dear to him, he did not flee from her presence as a weaker man
might have done. He simply stated the case to his Heavenly Father, as a
child confesses a fault to an earthly parent, and trusting in the Divine
guidance he went about his duties as before, knowing full well that
without him the frail bark would founder. That here was he needed, and
here he must remain, guiding the rudder until all danger should be
passed.
Victoria saw nothing of all this. To her this man was only their family
physician in whom she had been obliged to confide. A man deserving of
her confidence, and one who would not abuse it. Knowing his aversion to
all women she would not have believed her own ears if he had knelt
before her and poured out all that was in his heart. She would have
said: “I have at last gone mad.”
There were times when Victoria nearly succumbed under the weight of her
manifold duties. Then it was that the doctor was obliged to put a strong
curb upon himself. He longed to take her in his arms tenderly,
soothingly, and stroke the aching brow until he should bring rest to her
whom he loved, but he dared not, for he knew she would not understand
such love as he felt for her; that it would only frighten her. To him
this was the sweetest time in all his life, and he knew that there was
no sin in such love as he bore Victoria. He did not desire her for
himself. True, if she had been free, he would have striven desperately
to win her, but she was not and never would be while he lived, and he
did not wish it otherwise. He longed for her happiness; to see her gay
and smiling, as he had once known her in her early married life with
Roger. She had passed through so many fiery trials that they had left
their imprint on her face, and she must bear their marks through life,
but he would shield her from all further care so far as it lay in his
power. The cruel darts of malicious tongues should never strike her, if
he could prevent it.
Such had been his thoughts as he sat beside the couch waiting for the
crisis which meant so much to all three of them. Now the tide had
turned. Andrew would live, and he must, as the only friend who knew his
secret, counsel and advise him. However painful, it was a duty from
which he must not shrink, and for Victoria’s sake he would take upon
himself the secret of “The House of Five Gables,” and keep it from the
curious, gaping world.
A second time Andrew opened his eyes and gazed questioningly at the
doctor. Then, feebly turning his head he saw Victoria’s white, wan face
on the pillow beside him. When he looked again toward the doctor there
was a smile of perfect peace upon his face. His lips moved. The doctor
bent to catch the words which came feebly, hesitatingly.
“She knows all, and yet she has not left me. How great is woman’s
forebearance. I have been ill?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, very ill, Andrew, and unless you keep very
quiet and husband what strength you have remaining, you cannot recover.
Take this cordial and compose yourself for another sleep. Then when you
waken, I will answer all the questions you choose to ask.”
“Just one more question, doctor. How is my brother?”
“There is no change nor will there ever be. He will remain in this state
until he dies, which is only a question of time. His days are numbered.”
Andrew turned his eyes again upon Victoria, and tried to raise his hand,
but it fell helpless upon the coverlet. He looked wistfully at the
doctor. “I am so weak,” he whispered. “Take her hand and put it within
mine. I want to touch her; to know that she is flesh and blood. She
looks so pale, and wan; so like death, and it has been all for me; all
for me.”
The doctor did as Andrew desired, and with a sigh of content, the
invalid closed his eyes with Victoria’s hand clasped in his own.
An hour later Victoria awoke. Adam was sitting beside the bed fanning
Andrew, who lay sleeping with a faint smile on his face, and with
Victoria’s hand still within his. She gently drew it away and rose from
the couch. Something in Andrew’s appearance told her that he had
awakened in his right mind. The soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, which
had long been so colorless, bespoke returning life. Although she had
prayed that he might die, a rush of gladness that God had not seen fit
to answer her prayer filled her heart. After all, how could she bear to
have him put away from her sight forever, and too, there was Mary, who
loved her father so passionately, that if he died it might seriously
affect the child, who hung about the door all day, refusing to be
enticed out to play, and eating scarcely enough to keep her alive. Once
she had been admitted to the sick room, but her violent sobs at seeing
her father’s swollen lips and colorless face, disturbed the sick man,
and she was banished, but she knew that her father was still there, and
nothing could induce her to leave the door, where Victoria found her as
she went out. She took the child in her arms and carried her into the
study where the doctor lay sleeping. “Papa will live, my darling,” she
sobbed, burying her face in the clustering curls. “Papa will live.
To-morrow you shall see him, and tell him how happy you are that he
again knows you.”
The doctor arose as he heard Victoria’s voice and came to her. She
looked up with a smile more cheerful than any he had seen on her face
for many a day. “You know that he will live?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Willing, he awakened while you slept. He asked for his
brother, and then he wanted your hand in his, when he fell into a
life-giving sleep, which will do him more good than all my medicines.
Good nursing and strengthening food is all he requires from this on. I
think I may safely return home to-night. I will come early in the
morning to see how he is progressing.”
“Ah! do not leave me,” she said, clasping his arm. “What shall I do
without your ever ready hand to assist me? Oh, my friend, you will never
know what a comfort you have been to me in this my sorrow. No words can
express to you what is in my heart. But for your thoughtful care and
Christian example, I must have died. God bless and keep you.”
The physician bowed his head. Such sweet praise from the lips of the
woman who was so dear to him, was balm to the scarred heart beating now
so furiously. He raised her hand to his lips. “My dear Mrs. Willing,” he
said, as calmly as if she were a perfect stranger, and he a man of
stone. No sign of tumult within him showed upon his tranquil face. “My
dear Mrs. Willing, all that I have done any compassionate man would also
do. I deserve no thanks for doing my duty. I could not have saved that
frail life if God had not willed it so. To Him belongs the praise.” He
took Mary in his arms, and kissed her many times. It was a blessed
relief to be able to ease his aching heart on the face of this innocent
child. Her child.
“You hug almost as hard as papa,” she said, patting his cheeks
caressingly. “Do you love me a heap?”
“Yes, heaps and heaps,” laughed the doctor. “What will you take for one
of these curls. I would like to take it away with me and wear it next my
heart.”
“Couldn’t spare the weentiest bit of a one,” she answered, shaking her
head sagely. “My papa owns all of them. He says every hair on my head is
more precious to him than all his gold. When he gets well enough to talk
to me, I’ll ask him if you may have one. I could not let you have it
else, but I’ll give you all the hair on Flora McFlimsey’s head. It’s a
heap prettier than mine, and stays put a heap longer. I haven’t any
bald-headed children. I reckon I’d like one for a change.”
The doctor laughed. “I should feel highly honored to receive Miss
Flora’s hair, and you are very generous to offer it, but it is yours I
wish. If I can’t have _it_ I don’t want any.”
“Oh!” said Mary, meditatively, as she laid her head upon his breast, and
played with the buttons on his coat, “that’s it, is it? I reckon you’ll
have to go without. Why don’t you buy a little girl with hair just like
mine? Then you’d have heaps of curls instead of a teeny one.”
“Ah, but the trouble is, there are no little girls to buy.”
Mary’s mouth made a round O, while she looked at the doctor and then at
Victoria, who was amusedly listening. “I—I am afraid you don’t always
speak the truth,” she said, after a pause, “and mamma says that’s
extremely naughty. You carried a baby to Myrtle Bradley’s house the
other day, and one to Dorothy Lane’s. Why didn’t you keep one for
yourself?”
“But they were both boys, Mary, and boys, you know, don’t have such nice
hair as girls.”
“Oh!” again said Mary. Then, after a pause, she drew the doctor’s ear
close to her rosebud mouth and whispered confidentially: “Don’t let
mamma hear, but do you know, every night when I go to bed, I thank God
that you did not bring a boy to mamma instead of me. I should not like
to have been born a boy.”
The doctor roared, and looked at Victoria, who had heard the loud
whisper, but his face quickly sobered as he saw her agitation.
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” she quoted. “Oh! God, I too,
thank thee for this precious gift, which was not born a boy, who might
have lived to curse the author of his being.” She rose hurriedly and
left the room, while the doctor gazed after her with a deep sorrow in
his eyes.