CHAPTER IX.

“We descended into the narrow pass where lay in a disordered heap the

great engine, its mighty breath stilled forever; its ponderous wheels

bent and twisted as though made of fine wire, while a huge bowlder of

granite lying across the track, told how the accident had occurred. It

had been loosened from its bed far up the mountain side, and the course

it had taken could be plainly discerned by the broken trees, and the

freshly disturbed earth left in its track.

“A torrent of water swelled by the heavy rains of the night before into

an angry turbulent stream, rushed down the mountain and away across the

track, as if bent upon an evil mission instigated by some wild spirit of

the forest.

“The grandeur of the scene impressed me. For a moment I seemed to

realize how small an atom was my human frame compared to all these

things made by a wise ruler to complete the universe. With one sweep of

His omnipotent hand He could slay the world.

“Then why should I undertake with my baby brain, to perfect a scheme,

when by merely laying one finger upon it He could bring ruin and

disgrace to me. Only for a moment had I these thoughts, then with an

impatient gesture I brushed my forehead as if by so doing I could cast

all doubt and fear to the winds, and I said: Why hesitate? I have gone

too far now to turn back. It is sink or swim with me. Let fate do its

work.

“I had purposely turned in another direction from where I knew lay the

body of John Saxon and that of his beautiful bride. In a few moments I

heard the doctor’s voice calling me. I turned slowly. Even now, that I

had determined nothing should stop me from doing my will, the thought of

recognizing these people as friends, who were total strangers, and who

could not rise to denounce me, made a chilly uncomfortable feeling creep

over me. What if they too should come to life like Roger, and then with

a nervous laugh at my idiotic thoughts, I strode toward where the doctor

was kneeling, and bent over the figure which he had reverently

uncovered. It is she, I said. How beautiful she looks even in death. I

unclasped the chain from about her neck and opened the locket. See, I

cried, this is John, her husband. He, too, is dead, or else he would

have found her ere this. Let us continue our search. With a prayer to

the Holy Virgin Mary the doctor covered the sweet face with its staring

eyes, and soon he found the shapeless trunk and began searching the

pockets. I busied myself over the body of a man some distance away,

until I heard an exclamation from the doctor. ‘I have found him,’ he

cried. ‘Poor man! Poor girl! It is as you have stated. They were only

just married.’ He showed the papers. ‘What will you do?’ he asked. I

will take their bodies home, I replied. It is all I can do.”

Andrew paused as he saw the look of horror on the doctor’s face. “Yes, I

know of what you are thinking,” he continued. “I separated them. The

sweet young wife sleeps under a willow tree, in an old church-yard, many

miles from here. Her childhood home. She was an orphan, with no near

relatives. No one took the trouble to inquire into the matter. I told

the story of the accident to the good people of the village, a little

hamlet numbering twenty-five souls, all told. There was a simple burial

service, and everybody supposed that husband and wife were buried in one

grave, and that one casket contained them both. The body of John Saxon

lies here at ‘The Gables,’ hardly a stone’s throw away. His father was a

seafaring man, a ne’er-do-well when on shore. His mother had died in the

townhouse. No danger of _him_ ever being inquired for; you see I was

careful to get the exact history of these two persons who served my evil

purpose so well. Will God forgive me, think you, for separating husbands

from wives? First, John Saxon, from his blue-eyed bride; next, Victoria,

from my own brother? Oh, God! my sin is grievous.”

Andrew covered his face, and sobs, terrible to hear, burst from his

lips. The doctor, although loathing this man’s sin, could but pity him.

His grief was sincere. His repentance genuine.

“There has been no sin so great, but that God, in His mercy, has

forgiven it,” he said, stroking the invalid’s trembling hands. “He

divines the secret workings of your heart. He knows that you are

repentant.”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Andrew. “Repentant when too late. God’s patience

cannot last forever. There is a limit even to _His_ forbearance. Think

of the years in which I have gone on sinning, even when my conscience

pricked me every moment, and when I knew what the end must be.”

“Then you have suffered the throes of remorse?” questioned the doctor.

“Remorse!” echoed the sick man, beating his breast with his clenched

hands, “Remorse! Oh, could I describe to you the workings of my brain,

the tumults in my heart, which tortured me through the long hours of the

night, while those I loved and had sinned for, were sleeping. This last

year has been to me hourly a hideous dream, from which I feared to

awaken. I knew that my thoughts were driving me mad. I did not care. My

only hope was, that if I went mad, I might be removed to where Victoria

could not reproach me with her sad face, when she at last should know

the truth. Doctor, that woman is Divine. She is not of this earth. I

adore her more, if it be possible, than before my sickness, and I curse

myself when I think that, upon her dear head must fall all the results

of my wrong-doing. The world is harsh. When it knows my story it will

not spare her. She and the child will be the greater sufferers. I would

willingly be torn limb from limb, I would die a thousand deaths, if it

could be the means of sparing them from the jibes and taunts of a cruel,

heartless world.”

Victoria had listened to Andrew silently but not without emotion. She

had followed his every gesture with eyes of love. She heard the

confession of his guilt, but her heart did not harden toward him. It

only grew more tender. His sin had been great, but now he was repentant.

Through his love for her had he sinned. She would show him how much she

was now willing to sacrifice for his sake, to shield him from the world.

She stepped from the curtain which had concealed her, and rapidly

approaching the bedside she threw herself upon her knees, and taking

Andrew’s hands in her own kissed them passionately.

“The world shall never know your secret, my darling,” she cried. “What

good can it bring to the poor imbecile up stairs to publish abroad your

wrong doing? _We_ only are concerned. Let us live as before, more

secluded if you will, only we _must not_ be separated. I cannot consent

to that. To see you behind prison bars, the subject of ridicule from

coarse, low people who could never understand the motive of your crime,

would kill me. And Mary, our sweet little blossom, could never recover

from the ignominy if the finger of scorn should be pointed at her, and

she should be called—a convict’s daughter, and—and a—” Victoria

hesitated, and then with a low sob hid her face in the bed clothing. She

could not pronounce the word which might needlessly wound Andrew, and

which so cruelly branded her little innocent child.

Andrew stroked the bowed head slowly, softly, tenderly. He had not known

until now the depth and passion of this woman’s nature. It was a

revelation to him. She was all his own. Though prison bars might

separate their bodies no power was strong enough to divide their hearts.

He looked at the doctor who was sheepishly wiping his eyes. “The way of

the transgressor is hard,” he said, still stroking Victoria’s head. “My

path of duty lies open before me. I must not swerve from it. Victoria,

my beloved, I can bear my ignominy now that I have the full assurance of

your love. What matters it though prison bars separate us? What care I

for the world’s derision and contempt, so long as I know that the woman

for whom I have sinned loves me, and has freely forgiven me. No

sacrifice seems, too great for me to perform, and justice though tardy

must be accorded my poor brother. My eyes are open to my sin. I cannot

drag you into any further depths of wrong doing. I have worshipped you

as an angelic being; I would not now find too much of woman in your

nature. To me you must remain as you have always been, pure, and moulded

in finer clay than your sister women. Now that you know my crime you

must not share it. We could never feel else than degraded though nobody

but ourselves be the wiser.”

Victoria arose from her knees and kissed Andrew upon his forhead. “As

you will,” she said, striving for composure. “Though my heart should

break, I will do as you shall direct.”

The doctor, who had kept silent, now spoke. His words astonished both

Victoria and Andrew.

“In a certain sense Mrs. Willing is right about this matter,” he said

gravely. “Will you allow me to advise you, Mr. Willing?”

“Most certainly, doctor. Advice from you I should value above all

other.”

“Then I say, as Mrs. Willing has said; keep this crime a secret.”

“What!” cried Andrew, starting from his pillow, “you, too, against me,

when I had resolved to ease my conscience, to at last confess my sin to

the world? Ah, doctor, I had counted on your strong arm to help me do

what is right.”

“But you do not grasp my meaning, my dear Andrew. I do not mean to infer

you shall not suffer. I will try to explain my meaning by asking you a

question. Which had you rather do? Confess your crime to a magistrate,

and receive the penalty which would probably be twenty years in prison,

with the privilege of seeing Victoria and your child once a month; or

would you rather keep your crime a secret, but the penalty shall be a

life-long separation from the woman whom you love? You shall never look

upon her face again?”

Victoria started and looked almost savagely at the doctor; then turning,

she put out her arms toward Andrew. Without a moments hesitation he

answered, giving Victoria a loving glance: “I choose the prison cell

with all its attendant privations. I cannot lose my angel forever.”

With a glad cry Victoria again sunk upon her knees.

“And now you show your selfishness,” said the doctor, sternly. “You

think justice to your brother demands that you shall make known your

crime. I say that it does not. Nothing will be gained by such a

confession, but much will be lost. If Roger were in his right mind, I

should say, ‘Do not hesitate a moment, but give yourself up at once;’

but now it matters not to the poor fellow what is done. His clouded

brain can never recover. It is only a question of time with him. On the

other hand see what misery and shame will descend upon your child by

your confession. She it is who will be obliged to bear the brunt of all

your wrong-doing. There is where your selfishness begins. You would hold

up your child to the scorn of the world, for the mere pleasure of being

able to see the woman you love for a few brief hours every month. You

say you have repented, yet your repentance does not reach so far that

you can bear an entire separation from the being whom you adore. Your

confession will benefit nobody except a parcel of scandal mongers who

will only say, ‘I told you so. Another rich man gone wrong.’ It is as

Mrs. Willing says. They would not understand your motive in confessing

your crime. What I propose is this. If your repentance is sincere, send

Victoria away with her husband, for he has a prior right you must

acknowledge. In administering to his comfort she will also learn to

control her heart, and God will be with her. There is where _her_ duty

lies. It seems hard, but nevertheless it is right. And you must stay

here alone. Your duties all lie here. Your estates would go to ruin

without you. Here is where you are needed. God requires you to confess

your sin to Him in all repentance and sincerity, and then to lead a life

showing your true repentance. Such a life, I believe, is required of you

now. It will be full of self-denial for both of you; of fighting

continually with the old Adam within you; but as Mary grows to

womanhood, you can have the sweet knowledge of filial love which

otherwise, if the truth were known to her, might have been turned to

hatred. I do not believe God requires you to make your sin known to the

world, and none but a religious crank or fanatic would advise you other

than I have done.”

The doctor arose and took his hat. “I will leave you to think it over,

my dear fellow. Your good sense will tell you to decide as I have

advised. Mrs. Willing has already said she will abide by your decision.”

He shook the invalid’s hand, patted Victoria upon her bowed head as she

still knelt beside the bed, and left the room.

No word was spoken between the two who were so near together, yet who

felt themselves being separated by a hand powerful, but tempered with a

divine love and compassion most soothing to their bleeding hearts.

At last Andrew raised Victoria’s head and looked into the sad depths of

her tearful eyes. Then gathering her to his breast with all his feeble

strength, he placed his lips to her’s in a long caress which she felt to

be one of renunciation for all time.

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

FIVE YEARS AFTER.

At the most northern apex of Great Britain there is a quaint village

called Dunscansby Head. The turbulent waters of Pentland Firth wash the

beach, along which are scattered a few simple huts inhabited principally

by fishermen’s families. No more wild or lonely spot could well be

imagined. It seems almost shut off from the entire world, and a place

which none but those who wished to escape from all society would have

chosen. One would be as completely hidden as though buried forever, and

here Victoria had brought Roger accompanied by Adam, and a stout Scotch

woman whom she had picked up as she passed through Scotland.

Why Victoria had chosen this particular spot she could not have

explained if she had been questioned. When it had been decided that she

should take Roger away—that she must separate from Andrew perhaps for

all time—she had a desire to seek some place far removed from her

home—and those who were so dear to her—a place where she might live

unknown, and where nobody knew her. The doctor had said that a

sea-voyage might be beneficial to Roger. Victoria grasped at the

suggestion with eagerness. With the ocean between her and her love, she

might find peace, so hurriedly gathering a few necessary articles

together, she set out for New York, bound upon a journey to where she

knew not. The doctor accompanied her at Andrew’s urgent request. The

idea of the tenderly-nurtured woman—whose every wish had been gratified

almost before it was spoken—going out into the world with an imbecile,

and a tongueless servant as her only companions, was gall and wormwood

to the man who knew that his sin was the cause of her banishment. As his

bodily health improved his mind became stronger and more active, and he

would sit by the window looking out over his fair lands—fair no longer

to him because the one who had made them enjoyable was about to leave

them, and perhaps forever. If Victoria entered the room his eyes

followed her about hungrily. Often when she passed near him he would

secretly catch her gown and press it to his lips. If she turned suddenly

toward him as if about to speak, she only saw him stolidly gazing out

the window, seemingly unconscious of her presence.

This, too, was a bitter, trying time for her. Another burden had been

laid upon her already overtaxed shoulders. The doctor objected to little

Mary accompanying her. Much as she rebelled at the thought of parting

with her child, she acknowledged the doctor’s superior wisdom in

ordering Mary’s detention. The child was old beyond her years, her

memory was wonderfully retentive. If Victoria persisted in taking her

she must expect to be asked very embarrassing questions as the child

grew. Now, if left behind, and the subject never referred to, the old

man she had seen in the gabled room would soon fade from her memory. Not

so if she was brought into daily contact with him as she must

necessarily be if she accompanied Victoria.

Another thing the doctor argued—and here he showed fine diplomacy—was

Andrew’s loneliness if bereft of all his loved ones. The doctor pictured

the long winter days when Andrew would see no cheering faces. The still

longer nights when his chamber would be empty, and no restless little

figure tumbling in its crib, or a sweet, shrill voice shouting for a

drink of water. Victoria could not withstand this last plea. The thought

of brightening Andrew’s loneliness by sacrificing her own pleasure

tempered her keen anguish at leaving this dear bone of her bone, and

flesh of her flesh, and so one day when Andrew had come in from his

first short walk, she said with a smile in which there was no shadow of

the fierce pain at her heart: “I am going to leave our sunbeam with you,

Andrew. She is such a chatterbox, and will enliven the long winter days,

and the little crib beside your bed will not be empty when you waken in

the night.”

Andrew stretched out his hands and drew Victoria to him. “God bless

you,” he said reverently. “God watch over and protect you, but He will.

You are of His chosen ones. No harm can ever come to such as you. I have

longed to keep Mary, but I would not broach the subject and ask this

sacrifice of you. It would have been too presuming on my part, but now,

now that you have offered how gladly do I accept. The touch of her baby

fingers will keep me from all sin. The sound of her sweet voice will

heal the canker which seems eating into my heart. Again I say God bless

you Victoria.”

He had put her from him without a caress. She had been sacred to him

from the day when against his will he had chosen liberty without her, to

prison bars with the occasional light of her face to cheer him; and then

he slowly ascended the stairs to the gabled room where Roger sat

laughing at the queer antics of Adam, who was creeping about the room on

all fours, making noises in imitation of a dog, cat, sheep, cow, or

anything he happened to think of.

“Good, Adam,” cried the imbecile clapping his hands, “nice Adam, do it

again, my Adam.” He turned when he heard Andrew’s footsteps, and a

troubled look came over his face. “Go away,” he whined. “You will make

Adam stop. Go away, I tell you, you ain’t wanted here.”

Andrew stood sadly gazing at the mental wreck before him. How gladly now

would he welcome the light of returning reason in that face which he had

so hated. With what joy would he bring light to those darkened eyes if

he only had the power.

Roger was beating the air with his hands. His hearing was most acute,

and he knew that Andrew still lingered. “Adam,” he called, “put that

thing out. I can hear it breathe; it annoys me.”

Andrew put out his hand and touched his brother. “My poor Roger,” he

said. “Don’t you know my voice? cannot you remember brother Andrew?”

Again the troubled expression crossed the imbecile’s face, but only for

a moment; then he raised his hand as if to strike at something. “Go

away,” he cried. “Adam won’t be a cat so long as you stay. Cry like a

cat, again, Adam,” and as Adam set up a series of meows which made Roger

shout with glee, Andrew turned sadly and left the room. As he entered

his study he saw his chair in its accustomed place before the

writingdesk. He threw himself into it and bowing his head upon the desk

he wept long and sorrowfully. No need for this man to go before a jury

to receive sentence. Every hour his punishment hung heavier upon him;

every moment his conscience lashed him with greater fury, until, as now,

he was prone to cry: “Enough, my God! enough!”

As the time came for Victoria’s departure he tried to cast aside the

gloom which depressed him, and appear cheerful so as not to add one

straw to the brave woman’s burden. He assisted the doctor to remove

Roger from the house at night when all was quiet. The doctor had given

his patient a strong opiate, so that he would not attract notice by

crying out, and himself acting as driver, with Andrew and Adam caring

for Roger, he drove twenty miles to an out of the way station, there to

await the coming of Victoria.

The next night Andrew drove home alone, and when Victoria bade him

good-bye at the station the following day, the lookers on had not a

suspicion of the tragedy overshadowing the fair, self-possessed woman,

who shook her husband’s hand so calmly, and who pressed only one kiss on

the soft cheek of her baby girl with an almost indifferent air. Nor had

these same people any thought save that of envy, for the sad-eyed,

stern-faced man, who stood watching the train bearing out of his sight

perhaps forever, the being who had been all the world to him for so many

years. To those about him he was the richest man for miles around; he

had just recovered from an illness which would have killed any ordinary

man, and therefore, as one person said—looking after Andrew as he strode

from the station with Mary perched upon his shoulder: “That’s the

luckiest man in Virginia. Everything he touches turns to gold. He has

had more positions of trust offered him than any other man in the

country. A word from him carries more weight than as if the Governor had

spoken. Everybody envies him.” But if that man could have seen the

object of his envy a few moments later, when, after escaping from the

prying eyes of people, he was slowly driving homeward, there would have

been nothing but pity in his heart for the wretched man. He had taken

Mary upon his knee, and had buried his face in her sunny curls. For a

few moments he said nothing; his grief was too deep for words; while

Mary, with a grave air far beyond her years, patted his head with her

soft hand. She had not shed a tear at parting with her mother. Victoria

had had a long talk with her the night before, and Mary felt the

importance of her charge. Mamma had told her she must not cry because if

she did papa would get sick again. That everything funny she saw during

the day she must tell papa at night so as to cheer him. That she must

never do anything to annoy him. That she must try to be his little

comfort until mamma returned, which Mary reasoned would be to-morrow.

She stroked the hair back from her father’s hot throbbing temple, and

her touch soothed him. He hugged her closer, and thought how wise

Victoria had been to leave him this jewel; this priceless pearl.

“Love me hard, little one,” he said, trying to master his emotion. “Papa

has need of all your love. He is sick unto death.”

“But you won’t get any sicker if I don’t cry, will you?” queried Mary,

peering anxiously in her father’s face. “I did want to cry awful bad

when mamma kissed me, and a heap of gullops came up in my throat, and I

thought I’d never get ’em all down again. What makes gullops come up in

my throat, papa? Do you have them?”

“Sometimes, dear child,” replied Andrew, smiling at Mary’s quaint

question. “Where did you hear that expression?”

“Oh, from old Chloe, papa. Whenever any of the pickininys gets choked or

anything, she always goes for them with her shoes, and cracks them on

the back, and says: ‘Dere’s dat chile gullopin’ again. Some day he’ll

snuffocate, suah.’”

Andrew laughed and kissed the bright winsome face of his child, while

again he thought of Victoria’s wisdom in leaving to him her treasure.

Ah, what watchful care would he take of her, so that when the right time

should come, he might place her in Victoria’s arms and say: “This link,

which has bound us, has not been broken, only unclasped. Take it, that

once more may we be united.”

Meanwhile Victoria sat like a statue, her dry eyes looking out upon the

bleak hills, and gray overcast sky, as the train sped swiftly on. To her

excited fancy all nature mourned at her departure, and somehow the

thought comforted her. If the sun had smiled, and the birds had sung,

she could not have borne it. She had drained her cup of sorrow to the

last dregs. One more drop, and she would have succumbed. She had a wild

longing at the last moment to throw her arms around Andrew’s neck before

all the crowd, and beg him to confess right there and then, so that she

might not leave him, but stay and defy the world for his sake. Anything,

however dreadful, was better than this separation, which seemed to be

tearing her heart from her body; but she looked at Mary and forbore.

“For her dear name,” she whispered, and then her face, wearing a smile,

her heart burning like a volcano, she stepped aboard the car, and was

borne away from those she loved so passionately to where stern duty

awaited her.

Upon meeting the doctor and his companions she was the same

self-possessed woman who had parted from Andrew. No tears, no mention of

regrets. She fixed the pillows for Roger with a deft hand which did not

shake or tremble. The doctor marveled as he watched her. “Made to

endure,” he murmured, “made to endure.”

The party traveled leisurely until they reached New York, and after the

doctor had placed them upon the best packet-ship bound for England, he

turned his face toward home.

“Be good to my loved ones,” were Victoria’s parting words. “Make your

home with Andrew. It will cheer him.”

“I will,” replied the doctor. “Keep a brave heart, Mrs. Willing.

Remember the same God watches over us all.”

Upon reaching England Victoria sought a quiet villa in the suburbs of

London, where she hoped to be free from prying eyes. She engaged two

maid servants, who seemed to be quite steady, and not inclined to

gossip; and a man of all work, deaf apparently to anything going on

around him, but alert to every order given him by his mistress. A model

English servant. Here Victoria lived in absolute retirement for nearly a

year. She was not unhappy. The consciousness of having done her duty

toward the poor imbecile—who now clung to her more tenaciously than he

had ever done to Adam—served to sweeten her life. Then she did not

forget the poor and unhappy beings who were all about her. Her health

demanded exercise, and every day, rain or shine, she drove about the

city. Usually she took Roger with her, for although he could not see, he

delighted in the rapid motion of the carriage, and was never so quiet or

tractable as when riding with his hand clasping Victoria’s.

In her drives Victoria saw much of the squalid misery existing among the

poor of London. Her heart often bled as she looked upon these scenes,

and she resolved that in some way she must contribute her share toward

helping her lowly, unfortunate sisters. Especially was she interested in

the little children, whose wan poverty-lined faces, made prematurely old

looking by hunger, appealed to her heart, and carried her memory back to

old Virginia, and a sweet, happy face which had never known hunger or

care. To think with Victoria was to act. When her plans became settled

in her mind she went to her bankers, and told them that she wished to

draw on Mr. Andrew Willing for ten thousand pounds. It was a large

amount, and naturally they refused to accommodate her until they had

first heard from Mr. Willing. “Communicate with him at once,” she said,

with a smile. “I will call for the answer in a month.” She had no fears

as to what the answer would be. She knew well that Andrew would send her

the last penny of his fortune, and never ask what disposal she meant to

make of it; so at the expiration of a month she walked into the bank

with a confident air, and smiled as the banker deferentially handed her

a letter which read: “Honor a draft for any sum of money Mrs. Willing

chooses to ask for.”

A week from that time a site had been chosen, and ground broken for

destitute, crippled and orphaned children.

It had been agreed between Andrew and herself that they would not

correspond. Both felt that such a barrier was needed. So much might be

said on paper; but every day Victoria wrote a few words to Mary,

sometimes enclosing a line to the doctor; and the foreign mail which

left England twice a month, never failed to have among its letters a

bulky package addressed to Andrew Willing. Victoria thought best to

address all letters in Andrew’s name, so as to allay all suspicion which

might arise in the mind of the village postmaster.

Of course, every gossip in the town had his or her opinion as to the

queer doings at “The Five Gables.” Some of the more fertile minded

averred that Andrew’s illness had made him mildly insane, except at

times, when he would become furious, and in one of these spells he had

tried to kill his wife, therefore fearing for her life she had fled to

England where she was living in close retirement with her mother. What

more natural, but why had she left her child behind to be perhaps killed

by the maniac in one of his spells? This question was a puzzler to the

good people, who felt as if some secret was being withheld from them

which if told would make a dainty morsel to chew upon and roll about on

their tongues until thoroughly masticated; and naturally Andrew’s

neighbors—if they could be called such, the nearest house being a full

half-mile away—agreed that they were shamefully imposed upon. The fact

of the doctor having taken up his residence at “The Five Gables,” lent

still further credence to the story of Andrew’s insanity, and he was

looked upon as a dangerous man.

The doctor was obliged to parry many skillfully worded questions from

his patients, who suddenly evinced a warm interest in his well-being,

asking him “if he were not afraid to live in the same house with Mr.

Willing, whom rumor said was becoming more dangerous every day, and who

had actually thrown a plate at Pete’s head just because the soup was not

hot enough.”

The doctor felt a keen pleasure in mystifying his questioners, who

concluded after a time that they had made no headway in solving the

secret; so like all other mysteries this too sank into the background,

and gave place to the latest scandal, until one day it was suddenly

revived by a person whose veracity had never been questioned, and who

swore that having occasion to pass “The Five Gables” at the solemn

midnight hour, he had been astonished, almost paralyzed, when he saw the

western gable brilliantly lighted up and forms passing to and fro, while

the weird sound of a violin—“played by no human hand he could

swear”—floated out to his ears on the still evening air.

This story caused the wildest excitement among the villagers, who

gathered in little knots at the street corners, or sat around on sugar

barrels in the principal grocery, discussing this new feature which was

the most startling of anything so far connected with the mystery of “The

House of Five Gables.” Night was welcomed eagerly, and for hours after

darkness fell, the eyes of the whole population were turned toward the

house way up on the high cliff. Even the huge comet which was then

visible, and which was an object of fear and terror to most of the

villiagers, sank into insignificance beside this ghostly inhabitant of

the western gable, in the house where so many mysteries were being

concealed.

The story of the beautiful slave girl who had held court in that same

gable more than fifty years ago, was again revived by old residents, who

shook their gray heads and wagged their toothless jaws, while they

predicted that some dreadful evil was about to befall the present owner,

when ghosts which had lain quiet for half a century came back to revel

in the haunts they had once inhabited. Several lights could be seen in

the lower part of the house, but the western gable was still shrouded in

darkness. As the night wore on the lights gradually disappeared, usually

heralded by some urchin more vigilant than the rest, who would shout:

“There goes one. Only three more now to be put out,” and finally as the

last one disappeared, everybody watched with bated breath, as they

waited to see what would happen next. At last a brilliant light shown

out like a meteor from the western gable. A sigh went up from the

watching people, interrupted for one brief moment by a diminutive urchin

of an enquiring turn of mind, who had climbed a tall post to be nearer

the exciting spectacle, and who, as the bright light shot out—his

footing being insecure—fell with a howl upon the heads of those beneath

him, where he was caught by his enraged father, and after a

spanking—administered heartily and accompanied by the satisfied grunts

of those most interested—was thrust out of sight behind his mother’s

skirts, where smothered sobs and surreptitious kicks, told of the spirit

not having been entirely quelled, while between sobs could be heard a

small voice crying piteously “to be let to see the ghost.”

Superstition had thoroughly taken hold of every one present, and the

women would clutch each other by the arm as a form passed between the

window and the light, while they whispered: “There she is now! Can’t you

see her long black hair?”

As they were standing fully fifty rods from the house, the question

would seem rather superfluous unless one was gifted with eyesight of

telescopic power, but to their excited fancy the form of Bella, as they

had heard of her, was now reproduced by this specter, and one person

described her as being dressed in white loose garments, waving her arms

wildly as she passed back and forth; while another solemnly averred that

the ghost had simply a blanket wound around her in Indian fashion, and

wore feathers in her hair.

At last a man stepped out from the excited mass, and boldly declared,

“Ghost, or no ghost,” he would volunteer to go up to “The Gables,” and

arouse its inmates and offer his services to allay the specter. A low

rumble of approval greeted this brave declaration, but suddenly a woman

darted from the crowd and threw herself upon him. “Thou art daft, mon,”

she cried. “Wou’dst thee leave the childer wi’out a faäther, and me a

widdy? Let Maister Willin’ tak’ care o’ his spooks, hissen, and thee

abide here wi’ we uns. If thou goo’st I’ll never see thee mo’ore.”

“Shut up thine idle croakin’, woman,” rejoined the man, angrily

unclasping her clinging arms. “I war a fighter i’ Lancashire, afraid o’

nothin’, an’ wi’ anither gude mon to help, I’ll doon tha spook.”

“I’m with you,” spoke a voice, and a brawny fellow with muscles like

iron, and sledge-hammer fists, joined the bragging Englishman.

The crowd watched these two as they slowly climbed the cliff, until the

darkness hid their forms, and then in groups of three or four they

discussed the probability of their companions’ safe return; while the

wife of the Englishman was sobbing bitterly a little way apart, and was

looked upon as already a widow, and the two mites clinging to her skirts

as orphans.

“I mind Tom Butts, who chased a wild cat into the mountains,” said a

woman in a sepulchral whisper, which was plainly heard by “the widow.”

“It led him on and on, till finally it turned into a giant man, over

seven feet tall, and Tom never come back.”

A prolonged wail from the weeping “widow” stopped further reminiscences,

and the woman failed to enlighten her hearers, how it became known if

Tom had not returned, that the wild cat had turned into a giant man.

CHAPTER II.

The light still continued to shine from the gabled window. The ghost had

not been exorcised as yet, for still the form flitted to and fro, and

one man casually remarked “that as ghosts knew everything, it had no

doubt been warned of the hostile approach of the Englishman and the

brawny blacksmith, and had sent out an evil power to slay them,” and

then he facetiously added, “that he wished he had taken his horses to be

shod, as he minded to that day. Now the nearest smithy was ten good

miles away. Jack would never show up to shoe any more horses.”

Another ear-splitting wail from a gray-haired woman, presumably Jack’s

mother, and a chorus of voices crying, “for shame, Joe Bull, to joke

over the poor lad. Go away wi’ you for an evil sperrit yoursen’,” caused

the would-be joker to slink into the background covered with ignominy.

At last a sound as of returning footsteps down the steep cliff was

heard, and a subdued murmur like the hum of bees began to drift through

the crowd. Was it Jack and his companion returning? or could it be the

evil spirits, who, having destroyed those two brave men, were now bent

on wiping out from the land all those who had lent a helping hand toward

exposing the ghost of “The Five Gables.”

“Let’s be movin’,” said one woman gathering up her brood in the ample

folds of her gown, much as if they had been fagots of wood. “I never war

for disturbin’ the poor spooks. Let em trouble them as has a evil

conscience. Poor folks like we uns has no use for ghosts.” Her words

electrified her hearers, and with one accord they turned to depart. Some

with dignity as if the sound of ghosts’ footsteps were an every day

occurrence with them; others looking back over their shoulders fearfully

trying to penetrate the darkness, and the mystery of those fast

advancing footsteps.

“Hoo, hoo,” sounded a voice which seemed to come from the earth

underneath their very feet. “Hoo, hoo.”

A nervous negro woman with a cry of “Dey is arter we uns suah. I took

dat par o’ stocks’ jes fer fun, good ghos’, I’ll gub em back to missy

to-morrow, suah,”—was the cause of a general stampede, and men, women

and children, made wild with fear by the woman’s loud yells, stumbled

over each other in their frantic efforts to get to a place of safety,

but the hurrying feet behind them were coming, were gaining on them, and

some of the weaker ones realizing their inability to escape, sank upon

their knees and gave themselves up to their dreadful fate with a wail of

despair.

“What’s all this bloomin’ row about?” exclaimed a familiar voice much

blown from hard running. “Any body’d think the very de’il himsel’ war

after thee, folks.”

“Oh! is it thee, my gud mon?” cried the Englishman’s wife with a scream

of joy. “We were daft wi’ fear. We thoc’ht the ghosts had swallied thee,

an’ war coomin’ down tha brue for tha rest o’ we uns.”

A hearty laugh from the two “brave men” did much toward restoring the

courage of the fleeing people, who now turned and crowded around the

heroes, eager to hear of their adventures. Many men solemnly shook them

by the hand, saying “glad to see thee back again,” as if they had just

returned from a long and perilous journey, while the women more curious

asked in awe-struck voices: “Wha’ did thee see, Jack? War it really the

ghost o’ that yaller gal, Bill?”

“Naw,” sneered the Englishman with a wave of his hand. “We war weel

laughed at for meddlin’ wi’ what war none o’ our business. Maister

Willin hissen’ ha’ opened thot windie for ti’ luke at t’ comet i’ tha’

sky. He ha’ a telescope brocht fra foreign parts an’ it be woonderfu’.

He let us luke at uns, ha Jock?”

“Yes,” said Jack, who seemed quite crestfallen and inclined to hide his

head. “Yes, but I had rather found the ghost.”

“Tell us what you seen, Bill?” cried his hearers eagerly.

“Oh, it war’ woonderfu’, I tell thee, woonderfu’. Thee joost luke

through a round hole made o’ glass, and thee seeist this thin’ awa’ oop

i’ tha sky, like a fiery furnace. Beats thy forge all to nothin’, hey

Jock?”

Jack made no answer. He was plainly disgusted with himself for having

been made a fool of. The Englishman continued: “An’ wha’ do’est thee

think, gude people. Maister Willin’ say’es as how that thin’ has a tail

one hundred an’ feefty thousand miles long.”

Several laughed as Bill delivered this speech, and one man said: “I

knowed Andrew Willing were daft. Only a man all wrong in the upper story

would be sayin’ an’ doin’ such crazy things. The next thing you’ll be

tellin’ us Bill, is that the doctor has gone mad, too.”

“It war he as ope’d the dure fer me an’ Jock,” replied Bill, “an’ he

near cracked ‘is ’ead i’ two joost laughin’ at hour fuleishness. ‘Jock,’

’e said, ‘I thought you ’ad more brains nor this. I woonder h’at you.

Coom h’up steers, Maister Willin’ don’t make no secret o’ that gabled

room. It are open ti respection’, or somethin’ like that ’e said, so we

went h’in kind o’ fearfu’ like.”

“I was’ent fearful,” spoke up Jack quickly. “Speak for yourself, Bill.”

“Thee got as white h’as a sheet, mon,” returned Bill excitedly. “Thee

was’t afeer’d ti luke aside. Thee nee’r expected ti come out’en theer

alive, an’ wi’ a whole skin.”

“Go way with you for a bloody liar,” retorted Jack hotly. “I never was

afraid of anything yet.”

“Haa liar his it!” cried Bill, squaring off. “Ca’ me haa liar, do’est

thee? Hi’ll teach thee to hinsult thy betters.”

“Come, come; stop your quarreling,” said a man stepping between them.

“Don’t you know that Jack could wipe up the earth with you, Bill, if he

just wanted to? Why you would be a dead man in two seconds. See,

daylight is breaking, and the most of us are chilled through. We’ll have

snow before many hours. Let us all go to our homes, and to-night we will

meet at the post office, and you can finish your tale.”

Jack had turned away in disdain as Bill squared at him. “Fight that

thing,” he muttered, “well I recon as how I want a man to stand up

against, not a puppy,” and looking defiantly at the crowd he walked

toward his forge, while the others slowly dispersed to their separate

homes.

CHAPTER III.

The doctor and Andrew had many a quiet laugh over the ghost of the

western gable, and the light still continued to shine as formerly, but

nobody disturbed their midnight star-gazing after that; although not a

few among the more superstitious inhabitants still looked askance at

Andrew whenever he appeared in the village, and some even whispered that

he was in league with the evil spirits, and had compelled the doctor to

join hands with him, and that the devil himself had been seen walking

arm in arm with Andrew on the little balcony under the gabled window,

many and many a wild stormy night when neither man or beast hardly dare

venture out. Of course, such absurd stories never found their way to

either Andrew’s or the doctor’s ears, but Andrew had not failed to

observe a change in the general bearing of those whom he chanced to

meet, a furtive glance of the eye perhaps, or a sudden crossing to the

other side of the street to avoid meeting him face to face; but he was

too much engrossed in his own affairs to allow such petty trifles to

worry him. He did not wish for any man’s society. The doctor and he

lived very comfortably together. The men whom he met in a business way

could not complain of any inability on his part in a business

transaction. His brain was all right there whatever it might be on other

things. His silent, rather morose countenance, was uninviting to would

be questioners, and not one among his acquaintances had dared to ask him

why Victoria had gone abroad, or why she remained away so long; and he

who never bothered over his neighbor’s affairs did not dream of

enlightening anybody by volunteering information on a subject in which

only himself and Mary were interested. He had no idea of the frequent

tea gatherings, where sometimes he and his were the sole topics of

conversation. It would hardly have troubled him if he had known, so many

weightier subjects filled his mind.

To him the days which brought the foreign mails were the only ones of

all the month worth living for. He always went for the precious freight

himself, taking Mary with him. The child had come to know those big

envelopes with the funny seals on them, as coming from mamma, and he

always allowed her to break the seal, and then as eagerly as the child

listened, just so eagerly would he read the dear words, penned by loving

fingers which he knew longed to clasp his own. Although addressed to the

child, Andrew knew that every word was written for himself, and the

endearing expressions were kissed and kissed again, until the paper

seemed to him to almost take on life under his caresses. He would be

more cheerful for a time after one of these missives came to cheer him,

and the doctor hailed the foreign mail as eagerly as either Mary or her

father, for it meant a brighter household for a few days at least, and

too, the cheering news of Victoria’s good health and evident contentment

made glad the doctor’s heart.

It was he who suggested teaching Mary how to print, so that Victoria’s

life might be brightened by a letter from her baby girl, written all by

herself, with no suggestions or corrections from either him or her

father. Mary set about her task willingly, and was indefatigable in her

efforts at learning how to spell and print; and it was a wonderful

production which one day nearly a year after Victoria’s exile, was given

by Mary herself with many charges to the village postmaster, that he put

that letter sure in the foreign post-bag, for it was going to her dear

mamma who was very lonely way off across the big water.

Victoria, although not unhappy, had many days of longing to hold Mary in

her arms. Sometimes she would awaken in the silent night, and put out

her hands expecting to clasp the beloved child to her breast, so vivid

had been her dreams, but alas, when aroused to full consciousness, when

she realized how far away from her was the darling of her heart, then at

such times did she rebel, and when morning came the evil spirit within

her could only be exorcised by her going to the children’s home, and

herself superintending some part being built for Mary’s sake. She always

felt better after one of these visits, and every day she wrote accounts

of the progression of her work to the little daughter far away, and told

her of the little sick and crippled children who were anxiously waiting

for the completion of their home, which had been named “The Mary Willing

Home for Destitute Orphaned and Crippled Children.”

Victoria’s mail was received through her bankers, and the days on which

she might expect letters were always anxious ones to her. The doctor

never failed to write a few lines, telling her that all was well with

those she loved, and on this particular day she left “The Home” much

earlier than usual, and drove around to her bankers, for having read of

the arrival of a mail-ship, she was sure there must be mail for her.

There was, and a smile of gladness lit up her usually sad face as the

old clerk handed her a large bundle of papers, and three bulky letters.

“I am especially favored this time,” she said, electrifying the man with

that unusual smile. “You do not know, perhaps, what it is to feel that a

cruel treacherous ocean separates you from those whom you love.”

Tears stood in the old man’s eyes. The sweet glad smile had awakened sad

memories. “But you hope to meet your loved ones alive and well some

time, dear lady,” he said so sorrowfully that Victoria looked at him

interested. “They have not crossed that boundless ocean, which never

brings the loved ones back when once they are upon its waters.”

“Ah, no,” replied Victoria, “I have been spared that, thank God! But you

speak as one who has sorrowed. Have you lost many dear ones?”

“All, all! my lady. Five lovely children taken in their innocence before

they had known evil. The sixth was spared to me until she grew to

womanhood. Last year she too sickened and died, leaving a little flower

in her stead, a frail little blossom. Last week my good wife was taken

from me; now only the child and I are left.”

Such hopeless resignation was shown in those words, that Victoria felt

her eyes moisten. She noticed the threadbare clothes, the worn black

tie, the frayed edges to the spotless cuffs. His entire outfit if sold,

would not have brought a pound; but the marks of a gentleman were patent

in the spotless linen, the well kept nails, the general appearance of

the whole man. Victoria had heard of the meager salaries which most bank

clerks in England received. Hardly enough to keep body and soul

together, and she wondered how she could assist this man without

offending his pride. She thought of the little granddaughter. Oh yes,

here was a way surely.

“I have a little daughter in America,” she said, “I have not seen her in

nearly a year. I love all children for her dear sake. I would like to

know your grandchild, perhaps she would cheer and comfort me. Let me

have your address. I will call with your permission and take her

driving. How old is she?”

“Four years, my lady,” replied the old man, “but she is a frail little

thing. I thank you for your kindness. A drive once in a while might do

her world’s of good. I don’t have much money to spend on extras like

that.” He glanced at his clothing, and Victoria thought she saw a shade

of bitterness cross his face.

“I will call at your house after the bank closes this afternoon,” she

said, “and take both you and the child for a long drive. What is your

address, please?”

“No. 20 Deptford road,” he replied, his eyes glistening with pleasure.

“I lodge with a widow named Mrs. Ball. My name is James Catherwood Vale;

my little granddaughter’s name is Dora.”

Victoria nearly dropped the pencil and paper from her hand, while she

stared at the unconscious face before her. James Catherwood Vale! the

name of her own father’s brother who had been disinherited because he

had married a governess. Could this be he? Catherwood had been the

maiden name of her paternal grandmother, Dora Catherwood. Dora Vale, her

cousin, was the one who should inherit her own little fortune which she

had forfeited by marrying Roger. Now, this man, James Catherwood Vale,

had a granddaughter named Dora. How strangely like a fairy tale if this

should indeed prove her uncle.

These thoughts flashed through her mind with lightening rapidity, while

she regained her composure, and jotted down the address he had given

her.

“I will surely call for you,” she said, holding out her hand cordially;

and as James Vale clasped it in his, he wondered why this strange lady

should take this sudden interest in him and his.

He had seen her come in and go out of the bank many times within the

past year. He had even handed her the mail more times than one, and he

had also wondered what great sorrow could have befallen her, for never

until to-day, had he seen a smile upon the sad face. A smile which

transformed it into almost angelic beauty.

As Victoria entered her carriage she told the driver to take Oxford

street, and drive to Hyde Park. She did not wish to go home for a while

where Roger was waiting, with an avalanche of questions the moment she

came in, and who would have to be amused for hours perhaps, so that she

might not have a moment for quiet thought. She also wanted to read her

letters, and as she settled herself among the cushions of her carriage,

she thought: “I hope this man may prove to be my uncle, and the little

one my cousin. I shall not feel quite so isolated.”

For the first time since receiving her mail she glanced at the different

handwritings. “Two from the doctor,” she said, “and, what is this? Oh, I

believe the dear child has written to me all by herself. None but a

child directed this envelope.” With eager fingers she tore the envelope

apart, and after glancing at the heading of the letter pressed it to her

lips, and kissed the queer, ill-formed letters again and again. “Ah, how

precious,” she murmured, “my baby’s fingers have become tired and weary

over this task, but for mamma’s sake they have kept on.” She held the

paper from her and gazed at it with a world of love in her eyes. “There

is not money enough in all England to buy this little scrap of paper,”

she cried, “no, nor in the world.”

When she became calmer she began to read the letter aloud. She loved to

hear her voice pronounce the misspelled words, printed by loving

fingers, and which came as messengers of peace to the tired starved

heart, which had longed, oh so many times, to feel the touch of those

baby hands. The letter was characteristic of the child, and Victoria

laughed and cried by turns as she read: “My deer’est and truly

butyful’est Mamma Wont you be s’prised when you get this well I reken

you wil’ papa and uncel doctor has teeched me to print and spel’ but I

can print better than I can spel’ papa sey I must rite this al’ bi

miself for you wil’ think mor’ of it if he don’t cor’ect it wil’ you

must rite in your next and let me no uncel docter sey I’l do beter next

tim’ but I like it O mamma before I forget to tel’ you I must tel’ you

Jenny my pretty pony has a little baby the swe’test thing you ever saw

with long leggs as long as Jennys Jenny keeps liking it al’ the tim’ al’

over with her tong I’m not sure tung is spel’ rite but I mus’ not ask

papa for he wil’ not help me if I do for he sed he wood not and he

alwa’s dus as he sey O mamma pete has mar’id the gurl who puts on my

sho’s and stokings They went off one da’ and when they com’ ba’k petes

mama gave him such a beeting that Rosa went criing to papa and sed they

got marid so they did and papa laffed and gave them five dollars apece

and Rosa sey she’d get marid ev’ry day for five dol’ars and pete sey he

get drub’ed every day to for five dol’ars so I spose they ar’ hapy O

mamma aint tomoro’ a long ways off I thou’t you wood be home by tomoro’

but it seems as if ther’ had bin a good many tomorows sinc’ you went

away’ Flora my dol’ has met with a axident and uncel doctor has had to

ampertate her rite leg and tak’ out her rite ey’ wich becom’ brok’

nobodi no’s how I never did care mutch for Flora so I did not even shed

a tear al’ the rest of my children ar’e doing well thank you except

jonny jump up who has the meesels and Tina’ who has slow consumson wich

uncel doctor sey will be her deth som’ day’ O mamma papa do’se not cri

so mutch as he did w’en you first went awa he used to hug me so tite he

hurt me and then he wood cri and make me feal bad to but I did not cri

for you told me I mus’ not I have been reel good wen nite comes and I go

to bed papa alwa’s tel’s Rosa he wil’ undres’ me and then we have such

fun papa and me and then he razes the blind w’en he le’ves me so I can

look at the stars in the sky for he sey the same stars ar’ shining upon

my mamma way off over the water and then I go to sleep W’en ar’ you

coming home mamma I want to see you and so doos papa for I asked him one

da’ and he sed he wood lose ha’f of his life to take your dear hands in

his I lov’ papa derely and I lov’ you and then I lov’ uncel doctor who

likes to have me cal’ him uncel for he has not got any litle gurl but me

my hare is down to my waste in long curls and Rosa scolds caus’ she has

to curl it every morning but papa makes her come home soon deerest and

most lovely mamma to papa and me I wil’ rite another leter soon from

your duty full dauter mary vale willing.”

Victoria did not read this continuously as it was written. She often

stopped to kiss some quaintly spelled word, which reminded her so much

of the writer. Her tears flowed fast as she read the words of Andrew,

which he had not dreamed his child would remember and repeat. Ah, how he

loved her, and how she loved him, even if he had sinned. He had

repented, and every day he was atoning for that sin. She kissed the

paper which she knew his lips had pressed, and folding it she placed it

in her bosom. As she did so she raised her eyes to meet those of an

elderly lady fastened in surprise and consternation upon her. The

spirited horses dashed by, and the lady had passed, but not before

Victoria had recognized her mother, who she felt sure had also

recognized her. This was something for which Victoria was totally

unprepared, and taken unawares she had allowed an exclamation of

surprise to escape from her lips, while she could almost hear the name

“Victoria,” as she saw it formed by the proud thin lips of Lady Vale as

she had passed.

Not one word had Victoria ever received from her mother since the day

upon which Lady Vale had left “The Gables.” From her guardian she had

heard twice; once to tell her that according to her father’s will, she

had forfeited all right to her marriage dower, and that in the event of

her mother’s death it would revert to Miss Dora Vale, her cousin; and

the second letter was an acknowledgement of the receipt of her letter

telling of Roger’s death, and expressing sorrow at her bereavement. That

was all. She had written to her mother several times. She knew that the

letters had been received, or they would have been returned, but Lady

Vale kept complete silence. Victoria’s last letter had been sent when

Mary was two weeks old. Her heart was so full of love; she was so proud

of her treasure, that she wanted everybody to share in her joy; and she

had thought when her mother should read that letter—which ignored the

past, and spoke only of Victoria’s happiness, and God’s goodness to

her—that her heart would soften toward her daughter, and there would be

peace between them; but Lady Vale might have been dead, so totally did

she ignore all communication from Victoria, and Andrew, thoroughly

incensed at her treatment of her only child, forbade Victoria from ever

holding any converse with her mother, even if in after years she should

wish to become reconciled. So Lady Vale’s face came upon Victoria as one

risen from the dead, and to Lady Vale the shock was the same.

“Drive home immediately,” said Victoria to the coachman, and then,

overcome by all which had transpired that day, she buried her face in

her hands and wept bitterly. She felt safe no longer. Her mother,

knowing her to be in London, would manage in some way to discover her

abiding place, and once discovered, her secret, which she was guarding

with such jealous care, would become known to all the world, and

Andrew’s life would be in danger, to say nothing of the shame and

disgrace which such a discovery would bring upon herself and Mary. For

awhile her thoughts were chaotic. Her brain refused to act, and seemed

to her to burn within her head, and she wondered if she were going mad.

Oh, for a sight of the good doctor, for a sound of his calm voice wisely

counseling her. She had not a friend in whom she could confide. Not one.

She stood as completely alone as if all belonging to her were indeed

dead.

Suddenly a ray of light came to her. This old bank clerk, if he should

prove to be her uncle, dare she trust him? Yes, she felt that she might.

Truth, fidelity, honesty, were all depicted on that sad, careworn face.

He had no doubt in his long life been the recipient of many secrets, and

the tie of blood which she felt sure she could claim would bind him to

her. Her heart felt lighter as she reasoned, her brain became more

clear, and by the time she had arrived at the little villa, she had

begun to take a calmer view of things, and had determined not to flee

from her present abode until matters had become more serious. London was

a vast city. The chances were that her mother—even if she should take

the trouble—would never find her.

At four o’clock she drove to the dingy lodging house in Depthford Road,

and bade the coachman inquire for James Vale. He gingerly mounted the

worn steps, and as gingerly rung the antiquated bell, which shook and

shivered as if with an ague fit under his savage pull. These strange

fancies of his mistress were not to his liking at all. He had lived in

high-born families, had been accustomed to driving none but titled

ladies, and these low tastes of this new mistress filled his soul with

disgust. Not once since he had been in her employ had she driven to a

fashionable house, and taken ladies like herself for a drive, but she

must needs prowl about in all the dirty back streets, picking up ragged

and deformed children to fill her carriage, which he was expected to

dust and clean after the drive; and now here was another new freak. She

had no respect for herself, and no regard for the welfare of her

servants, exposing them all to contagious disease by this wilful running

after the slums of London. He would give in his notice that very day,

and tell her that he was satisfied with his position except for one

thing. It was very humiliating to himself, and beneath the dignity of a

first-class coachman, who had never driven anything but quality, to

ringing fourth-class lodging house bells, and cleaning carriages after

the ruff-scuff of London had ridden in them. He had a deeply injured

look upon his face as he waited to assist these new people into the

carriage, but the look changed to one of surprise, as James Vale with

his little granddaughter in his arms, came down the steps with a glad

smile on his thin lips. In spite of his worn clothing, in spite of the

humble abode from which he had just issued, there was so much of the

true gentleman in his manner, that the coachman involuntarily touched

his hat and assisted him to a seat with as much grace as though the old

gentleman had been of the nobility.

CHAPTER IV.

Victoria greeted James Vale with a kindly smile, and looking at him

closely, she imagined she could trace a likeness in the sad, careworn

face to that of her father as she remembered it; and then she turned her

attention to little Dora, who sat upon her grandfather’s knee, silent

and shy. She was a dainty little maiden, frail as a tender flower, and

as beautiful. Her great, blue eyes gazed in wonder at all the strange

things she saw about her. Victoria longed to take the little form in her

arms; to press it tightly to her aching heart; to murmur loving words

over the soft, golden curls so much like her darling’s. She held out her

hand. “Will you not come to me, little one?” she asked in a trembling

voice so full of tears that the old man looked wonderingly at her.

“Forgive me,” she added, smiling through her tears, “forgive me for

seeming so childish, but my arms have been empty for ages it seems to

me. Little Dora resembles my baby girl so much. I think this pain at my

heart would vanish, could I feel the touch of her tiny fingers.”

James Vale without a word placed Dora in Victoria’s outstretched arms,

which clasped the child close, close to her breast, and the mother-love,

which had been starving for food, rained kisses on the sweet, upturned

face. The child was not frightened. Love begets love, and Victoria was

showering all the pent-up love of her heart on this little stranger, who

so resembled Mary, and who she also believed was of her blood.

“Boo’ful lady,” exclaimed the child, pointing at Victoria with a tiny

finger, and looking inquiringly at her grandfather. “Boo’ful lady ky.

Dodo ky, too,” and suiting the action to the word, she was about to

raise her voice in sympathy with Victoria, but James Vale, raising his

hand, said quickly: “No, no! Dora must not cry. Kiss the lady, Blossom,

and tell her you will love her; put your arms around her neck and hug

her as you do grandfather.”

Dora immediately complied, and as Victoria felt the pressure of those

baby arms, her turbulent soul became quiet; her heart felt relieved of

its pain. “What a magical healer,” she said, smiling at James Vale, who

was on the point of tears himself. And passers-by turned to look after

the open carriage, and wonder at the unusual sight of a richly-dressed

lady whose beautiful face was radiant with smiles, though tears were

coursing down her cheeks, while she held the child tightly pressed to

her, the tiny arms clasped closely about her neck.

As Victoria became calm she began to think how best to get this man’s

history; in what way to approach him so as to verify her suspicions that

he was indeed her uncle.

“You spoke of your daughter dying and leaving this little one,” she

said. “Was she a widow? You did not mention anybody else having a claim

upon little Dora beside yourself.”

James Vale’s face darkened, and a bitter expression came upon it. “She

was worse than widowed!” he exclaimed fiercely. “She was betrayed,

deceived by a villian, who drove her to her grave, who broke her

heart—curses upon him! If I should meet him I should not think it a

crime to kill him. It would be justice.”

As he paused Victoria laid her hand upon his arm. “You, too, have become

acquainted with a grief which is worse than death. Tell me your history.

I do not ask out of mere idle curiosity. I have a strong motive in

wishing to know all about you. I may be of service to you, and when you

have done with your history I will tell you mine, and a sadder one you

will say you have never heard.”

James Vale glanced at Victoria questioningly. “A stranger’s griefs and

sad reminiscences can hardly interest a lady such as you,” he said.

Victoria nodded her head. “Don’t hesitate, Mr. Vale, or if you do I will

begin your history for you. Let us say that perhaps years ago when quite

a lad you lived, moved and had your being in quite different

circumstances from those which surround you at present. In short, you

were the younger son of a titled English gentleman, and because you

chose to fall in love with a governess, and were honorable enough to

marry her, your father promptly disinherited you.”

James Vale had been regarding Victoria with mute astonishment as he

listened to her words, but as she paused he almost rose from his seat in

his excitement and exclaimed: “How did you know that? Who has been

informing you of events in my life which for years have never passed my

lips to other than my family?”

Victoria smiled and placed her hand upon that of the old man. “I will

enlighten you in good time,” she said so gravely that he was convinced

of the truth of her words. “Mr. Vale, I have a right to know your life’s

history, believe me, it is of vital interest to us both that you tell it

me.”

He hesitated no longer. “I will do as you request,” he said. “How you

became acquainted with my early life I of course know not, but you have

been informed aright. My father was Lord Arthur Vale, a proud, stern

man, not wealthy by any means, but counting birth and honor far above

all gold. I had an elder brother, Arthur, headstrong, willful, but he

was my father’s favorite because to him would fall the title and landed

estates, while to me would come only a small annuity, which had been my

mother’s, but which was at the option of my father to dispose of as he

pleased, if I in any way displeased him. In time Arthur married a

high-born lady, the Honorable Augusta Champeney. My father was delighted

with the marriage, and selected a young girl who had been one of the

bridesmaids as my future wife. Lady Anna Dunstry was her name, and she

was very pretty although shallow minded. My father told me that he

desired me to propose to this young lady, and I being already deeply in

love with a governess employed by Sir George Wilson, our nearest

neighbor, flatly refused. My father coaxed, and finally threatened, so

that becoming weary of his continual hectorings, I proposed to my love

that we go quietly up to London and be made one. At first she refused,

but I pleaded hard, urging her to consent, for I feared if my father

heard of our betrothal he would in some way separate us. At last

yielding to my prayers my fair love accompanied me to London. In two

days we returned, and with my wife clinging to my arm in mortal terror,

I sought my father’s presence. Never shall I forget his anger. He drove

us from the house with curses. In a few days he died, and I found myself

disinherited, with only fifty pounds in my pocket, and two mouths to

feed; but I was young and hopeful. I took my wife to London, and soon

found employment in a mercantile house where the work was very laborious

while the pay was correspondingly small; but we lived, and labor was

sweet to me because I was toiling for those I loved. One child after

another came to us, only to remain for a little time. That was the only

sorrow we had. Finally little Dora came and stayed. I named her after my

dear mother. Arthur often wrote to me, and at every child’s birth sent a

gift, all his slender purse could afford. When Dora came and I wrote to

him what name we had given her, Arthur was delighted and sent her a

hundred pounds. He had wanted to name his only child after our mother,

but his wife had settled upon the name of Victoria, and would not be

denied. As Dora grew she blossomed into as fair a maiden as ever lived.

She was scarcely a year old when my brother died leaving rather a

strange will. In the event of his daughter marrying against her mother’s

or guardian’s wishes, or before she reached her majority, his estates

and money were to revert to his widow, and after her death they were to

fall to Dora without restriction. A copy of the will was sent me. My

brother’s widow often came to London, but she never took the trouble to

hunt us up, or to try and heal the breach between us, and I being the

poverty stricken one, was too proud to make advances, and the thought of

my brother’s little fortune ever becoming Dora’s never entered my head,

but one day, as Dora was nearing womanhood, a white-haired man drove up

to the office where I was employed and told his errand. He was Victoria

Vale’s guardian, and he came to tell me that some day Dora might receive

what had once been intended for Victoria. She had married an American,

and had forfeited all right to her dower, and Dora was now the heiress

of Lady Vale. We were not glad, my gentle wife and I. We saw trouble in

store for all of us. In all probability Lady Vale would want Dora to

live with her, and my wife at once said: ‘We cannot part with our one

ewe lamb, James,’ and I emphatically endorsed her sentiment. In a short

time our fears were verified. Lady Vale called and desired to adopt

Dora. We declined to part with her, and Lady Vale left in anger, and has

never communicated with us since except through her lawyer. She knows of

Dora’s death. She knows that Dora left a little one, but she has never

been to see it, although, according to law it is now her heir. A mother

who could repudiate an only daughter, for the simple fault of marrying

against her wishes, could hardly be supposed to forgive those who had

opposed her as we had done. My only fear is that my little blossom will

perhaps some day fall into her clutches, and her cold, stern nature

would kill this little sensitive plant in no time. Once I thought Lady

Vale the most winsome, the most charming of women, but disappointments

have soured her, until she is no longer the same.”

The old man became silent, and gazed out over the country road they were

now driving through. Victoria had chosen this road but little used,

because here she was not likely to meet her mother, and they could drive

for miles without coming in sight of a human habitation.

“There is one thing you have not mentioned,” she said at last. “You have

not told me of Dora’s husband.”

James Vale winced. “He was not her husband,” he said sadly. “He had

another wife living when he married Dora, although at the time, of

course, she was ignorant of it. He was an artist or pretended to be. He

met Dora at a country house where she had gone to visit a school friend,

and when she returned after an absence of a few weeks, he followed close

after, and asked me for her hand. I did not like him. I told him I could

not give my only child to a stranger. He must not ask it. Dora was but a

child. He left me, apparently satisfied, but I found out, when too late,

that he filled Dora’s head with chimeral stories, and finally she came

to me, and laying her bright head on my shoulder said she could not live

if her lover was sent away, and that she would follow him; and she

reminded me of the time when her mother and I were both young; and

against my better judgment I consented, but when I saw her so happy, and

when she blessed me for acceding to her wishes, I could not regret what

I had done, though I knew it might bring her sorrow. We would not

consent to her leaving us, so they married, and Dora was like a bird

singing from morning till night. They had been married little more than

a year, and I was becoming reconciled to my son-in-law although he had

done but little toward keeping the house. He puttered a little at his

painting, with Dora hanging about him, but I never saw a completed

picture of his. Many were begun but none were ever finished. One day he

said he must go away on business, and he wanted to take Dora with him,

but her mother would not allow her to travel, for she was in very

delicate health. He went away alone and he never came back. He said he

would be gone a week. The week came and passed, still he was absent.

Dora began to fret, and begged me to go after him, for she knew he must

be either sick or dead, but as I knew not where he had gone, I could not

very well go after him. Two weeks dragged by and Dora was wild. She had

confided to me that he had asked her for some money, and she had drawn

nearly all of her marriage dower which was the one hundred pounds which

her uncle Arthur had sent me at her birth. I had immediately placed it

in bank for her, and on her marriage it had accumulated to quite a sum.

When she told me what she had done I made up my mind that we would never

see the scoundrel again. At last, after Dora had taken to her bed with a

slow fever, there came a letter from him couched in the tenderest terms

for her, but calling himself all the vile names ever heard of. ‘He was a

married man, with children. Dora was not his legal wife. He had loved

her so dearly that he had sinned to get her, but now he had wakened to

his folly, and she must forgive and forget him. The name under which he

had married her, David Griswold, was not his true name. _That_ she would

never know.’”

“Dora never rallied from that blow. She lived three years, but she took

no interest in anything going on around her. Not even the advent of

little Dora could break the apathy which bound her.”

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

“Never,” replied the old man. “If I knew where he could be found I would

go to him, and slay him as I would a dog.”

Victoria clasped the child to her bosom as if she would shield her from

all harm. “That man never loved Dora,” she said, “or he could not have

left her. Poor girl. What a heritage of sorrow she leaves to this little

innocent. Mr. Vale, if you will let me, I will care for her as if she

were indeed my own. Who has a better right than I, for am I not her

kinsman? Was not my father your brother?”

James Vale did not comprehend her meaning for a moment, as she sat

smiling at him. He repeated her words slowly, and then he could not

believe them. “I only had one brother,” he said. Then the truth burst

upon him. He clasped the hands held out to him, and carried them to his

lips. “You are Victoria?” he asked.

“I am Victoria,” she answered, smiling at his evident pleasure. “Your

father disowned you because you married to please yourself. My mother

disowned me for the same reason. I have never seen her since then, until

to-day I passed her. She recognized me. I knew her at once, although she

is much changed. Uncle James, for so I may call you, I hope?” He nodded

assentingly. “I am so glad to have found you, for I need advice, good

sound advice. I am all alone here in England, except for an imbecile

invalid husband, and I must have help in my trouble. What I have to tell

must be held sacred by you. It is a terrible secret, and the keeping of

it has well nigh killed me.”

James Vale pressed Victoria’s hand in sympathy. “Rest assured my dear

niece that whatever you choose to impart to me concerning you and yours

will be held strictly inviolate.”

“I knew it,” she replied. “Your noble face inspired me with confidence

ere I knew that you were of my blood.”

Then she began the recital of her sorrow. He listened deeply interested.

She told him everything. She told him of her girlish love for Roger; of

her aversion to Andrew. Of her supposed widowhood, and of the premature

birth of a shapeless thing, which could not even be called child.

She told of Andrew’s watchful loving care, and how at last she began to

care for him, and, though loving Roger’s memory, she married Andrew who

tried faithfully to shield her from every care, and who surrounded her

with the tenderest love. She told of the birth of Mary, sweet fair and

winsome; of Andrew’s deep love for his child; of the child’s passionate

adoration for her father and there she hesitated, while her face showed

the torture which her soul was undergoing.

James Vale understood her emotion, and he stroked her hand soothingly.

“Do not tell if it pains you,” he said. “I can help you if I do not know

the circumstances.”

“No, no, you cannot,” she interrupted. “I must tell you everything. I

want your advice. You cannot give it unless you know the full facts. It

is another’s sin I must tell you of, and oh, I fear your judgment will

be harsh. That you will say things against the absent one who is not

here to plead his cause. Things which will hurt me because they are said

against him.”

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

to wound you.”

“It is my husband, Andrew Willing, of whom I now speak,” she continued.

“Judge him as leniently as you can for he has suffered, bitterly

suffered, and every day he is expiating his sin.” Then with many

hesitations, with many tears, she unburdened her heart, and when she had

done she felt better. The load which had weighed her to the ground was

lifted, and was being born by one of her own flesh and blood. What a

blessed relief this was to Victoria, can only be devined by those who

have borne similar burdens.

James Vale was shocked, horrified at the tale. His eyes sought the dense

woods through which they were passing, so that Victoria might not see

the horror in them. He had thought that his Dora had been the most

stricken of women, but here was one whose sorrows had been legion.

Sorrows before which Dora’s wrongs sank into insignificance.

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

pressed.”

“And now,” continued Victoria, “comes this new difficulty. What shall I

do if my mother should discover my hiding place which she is very likely

to do. I dare not drive every day for fear of meeting her, and the

drives are Roger’s chief pleasures. Can you advise me?”

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

“Ah, but this home for children which is hardly in working order, and as

yet I have found no competent man to take full charge of everything. A

number have applied but some thing is the matter with all of them. Oh,

Uncle James, a thought has just come to me. Will you be my

superintendent? What a care will be taken from my shoulders if you only

will. You are just the man to fill the position.”

“It is a great responsibility, Victoria.”

“Ah, yes, but think of all the good you can do, and, besides, your

duties would not be as hard as they are now. You would be your own

master. May I ask what your salary is at present?”

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

“Forty pounds!” she echoed. “Why, that is barely more than three pounds

a week. How do you manage to exist.”

“We did very well while my wife lived,” he answered, sadly. “She was an

excellent manager, but now it is oftentimes hard to keep the wolf from

the door. Her sickness and death was a heavy strain on my slender

purse.”

“If you will become my overseer, or, rather my general right hand man, I

will give you forty pounds weekly, and consider myself extremely

fortunate at that.”

James Vale looked at Victoria. The offer was magnificent. “It would be

robbery,” he said, quietly.

“Ah, no, dear uncle. I cannot get a competent man for less, and then

perhaps he may not prove competent. You, whom I can trust, will take the

position, I know. Then I shall feel free to leave London, possibly

England, and take up my residence in exile far from here. It is my wish.

Will you consent?”

And James Vale consented, for he saw that Victoria was in earnest, and

when the carriage drew up at his humble abode, and he alighted, with the

sleeping child in his arms, it was with the promise that he should come

to Victoria early in the morning.

CHAPTER V.

And so after a few days of bustle and hurry, Victoria once more took up

her wanderings. Her uncle was her constant companion, and when he bade

her adieu at the station, she felt as if everything which she had been

obliged to leave undone would be looked after as conscientiously as if

she were by his side. She had pleaded to be allowed to take Dora with

her, and James Vale consented most willingly. She needed a woman’s care,

who else could care for her as tenderly as Victoria who loved her most

dearly, and Dora clung to her new found friend as if she had discovered

in her a second mother.

Victoria had decided to visit some parts of Scotland, and having heard

much of the beauties of the Firth of Forth, she decided to go there for

a time and take up her residence at Leith; but she had not been there

long when she saw a decided change for the worse in Roger. The air did

not agree with him, so of course she must find some other place in which

the invalid could be comfortable. He always seemed better when at sea,

so she decided to try sailing for a time. A slow sailing vessel was to

start for Aberdeen in a few days, and she engaged passage for her party

on the ship. At Aberdeen she would rest for a few days until she had

determined where to go and what to do; but before the ship reached

Aberdeen she had decided. On the voyage she overheard two sailors

talking. They were evidently strangers, and were forming each other’s

acquaintance.

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

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

left it.”

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

here?”

The other laughed uproarously. “Weel thou art fash, I ween. Wheer ha’

thee lived all tha’ life?”

“I’ Edinburgh,” replied the first sailor, rather testily. He did not

enjoy the teasing laugh of his companion.

“Eh, mon, tha’ should coom wi’ me ti’ my hame. I’ll be gooin’ back soon.

Theer I can be free an’ happy.”

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

back.”

“Noo goold grows on trees anywheer’s, tha’ fule, but Duncausby Head ha’

buried treasures, an I know et. Ha’ ye neer heerd tell o’ John de Groot,

a man wi’ a nasty temper, wha’ could na’ live peaceably wi’ his seven

brothers, so he built a house wi’ eight sides till it; every side wi’

its own dure, so tha’ eight brothers could na’ quarrel one wi’ tha’

ither?”

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

“It be no idle tale I say. Coom wie me an’ I show it thee. I ha’ been in

it mony a time. It be tha’ ferryhouse wheer thee lands fra’ t’ Orkney

Isles, i’ Pentland Firth. Theer be gude fishin’ for all who may wish,

an’ I like fishin’ better nor sailin’, so I be gooin’ bock soon, an’

thee be welcome ti’ coom along wi’ me. Nae sickness ever cooms theer. We

ha’ nae docther i’ tha’ place.”

Victoria listened at first languidly to the two men’s conversation, and

then with interest. Why would not Duncausby Head be a safe retreat for

her, and healthgiving to Roger. She resolved to question this sailor at

the first opportunity. She did so, and his answers were so satisfactory

that she decided to push right on to Duncausby Head, and there abide.

Upon arriving at Aberdeen she staid long enough to get a good Scotch

woman, and traveling leisurely she at last reached the place where we

now find her, five years after leaving America.

Little Dora was now eight years old, and had grown stout and robust,

with a Scotch color in her cheeks which would have delighted her

grandfather could he have seen it. But for this child Victoria must have

gone mad. Her sweet coaxing ways kept green the heart-starving for those

it so dearly loved in old Virginia. There were days when the winds and

tempests raged about the little point; when it was not safe for man or

beast to venture out. On such days when Victoria was housed with Roger,

whose health was slowly failing, and who was pevish and sometimes ugly

in consequence, the presence of the sweet child with her wise babblings,

was like a ray of brightest sunshine to the heart-sick woman, and she

lavished all the pent-up love which had waited so long upon Dora, who

returned Victoria’s caresses a thousand fold.

As Roger grew weaker he became more exacting. He knew Victoria’s voice

and touch from any other, and if she left him for even a moment, he

would howl and beat the air with his fists until she again appeared, and

laid her hands upon him. She had sent for a physician, who told her that

no change of climate would be beneficial to the invalid. He was as well

off in one place as another. It was only a question of time.

“Only a question of time.” Those had been Dr. Harrison’s words five

years ago; still Roger was living, and how long, perhaps another five

years. Victoria can hardly be blamed for the thoughts which would come

to her. She did not wish for Roger’s death, but she wondered how long

_she_ could endure this, to her, living death. Every day the question

occurred to her, and every night when she retired she had a fear that

when the morning should dawn, it would find her insane. She felt little

Dora to be her guardian angel, and many a time after a hard battle with

Roger—who showed wonderful strength for one so weak—she would take the

child in her arms and sob her heart out on the tender little breast. Ah,

yes! She was being punished for the guilty thoughts which once had

possessed her for Andrew’s sake.

The mail came very uncertain to Duncausby Head. Sometimes for weeks

Victoria did not hear from home, but she did not rebel at that. If any

of her dear ones died she could not reach them in time to once more gaze

upon their faces. If they were ill she did not wish to know of it.

Better death and the knowledge of it, than illness with uncertainty, but

every letter brought nothing but good news. All were in the best of

health. Mary was a big girl now, and printed her letters no more. She

wrote with a bold, free hand, which told Victoria of that other hand

which had been her tutor. Nothing went on at home of the least moment

but that was told in graphic language to Victoria, who sometimes closed

her eyes and imagined herself back at “the Five Gables,” seated beside

the lake, with Andrew by her side, and Mary at her feet.

To waken from that dream so real; to waken with Roger’s wild cries

ringing in her ears, as he struggled with Adam in mad frenzy over the

bug bugging in his head; this was her trial which sometimes she bore

with resignation, and again with bitter complainings to God, asking upon

her knees if her punishment was to endure forever.

Victoria had changed, and who could wonder that she had. She was not

quite forty in years, but she felt aged to twice that number, because of

the many trials through which she had passed. Time had dealt lightly

with her beautiful hair. The same sunny sheen was upon it as in her

younger days, but the sweet laughing mouth had grown serious, while

little lines had formed around the full lips, as if they had often been

drawn with pain and suffering. But the eyes told of what Victoria had

endured more than all else about the face. A stranger, meeting her as

she was walking on the sands, would know at a glance that some great

grief had come to this woman. Some terrible agony had she passed through

which had left its imprint in the sorrowful eyes with a nameless

something in their depths hard to define but touching in the extreme.

The rough sailors and fishermen bowed before her chastened beauty, as a

devotee bows before a shrine. To them she was a ministering angel, who

had known sorrow and grief. She had come among them a stranger, but she

had soon endeared herself to every man, woman and child. Many a widow,

whose husband slept under the turbulent Firth, had cause to bless the

sweet lady whose few spoken words, and tender hand clasp, won their

hearts far more than the generous roll of bills left behind as she

departed from their homes.

Many an old decrepid whose days of usefulness were done, living in his

lonely hut, counted the hours till the fair, sad-eyed lady should come

to read or talk with him, and who never left without some substantial

reminder of her coming. There was not a man among that little community,

but what if called upon, would have cheerfully laid down his life in her

behalf, for at all times since her advent had she proved a lady

bountiful to the whole village. To her this was a restful haven, and

although separated far from those she loved, yet in the spirit she was

always with them, and they with her.

One day there came a letter from the doctor, and the news it contained

made her sorrowful for many a day. It said: “Some startling news has

come to Andrew, verified by papers and affidavits. The mulatto, who has

been Roger’s attendant, is Bella’s boy, and Andrew’s half brother; and

what is more he knows it, and has kept it to himself. The old woman who

took him away when but a little lad, told him of his parentage when on

her deathbed, and bade him seek his kindred, giving him the necessary

credentials to establish his birth without a doubt. His tongue was cut

out by a cruel overseer, for Adam was of a hot, passionate temperament,

as who could doubt, knowing his parentage, and brooding over some wrong

would have killed the overseer if he had not been caught before he had

accomplished his purpose. While Andrew was in doubt as to the best way

of bringing Roger home—after he had sufficiently recovered from the

railroad accident to be removed with safety—Adam appeared to him as he

was riding home from the plantation. By Adam’s signs Andrew soon

discovered his misfortune, and he saw how he could make good use of this

tongueless man. He immediately took him to the old monastery, and left

him to care for Roger while he hastened home, and under cover of the

night, with his own hands, arranged the book-case which stood before the

closed door leading to the gabled room. It was all easily accomplished

without suspicion, for you of course, was prostrated with grief, and

took heed of nothing; and two month’s after Roger’s supposed death,

Andrew, with the assistance of Adam, had transferred his brother from

the monastery to the gabled room. Question Adam. Tell him you know the

secret of his birth.”

It was some days ere Victoria could bring herself to question Adam. The

letter had again brought Andrew’s crime most vividly before her, and if

such a thing were possible, there seemed to have come an added sorrow

into the sad depths of her mournful eyes, but one day when Roger’s chair

had been wheeled out upon the sands, and Adam, who was a most tireless

attendant, was stretched full length beside the invalid, then did

Victoria with a tremor in her voice, tell Adam of the letter which had

come from old Virginia. He did not seem surprised but smiled and nodded

his head, while he touched the breast pocket of his coat.

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

With another smile he drew forth papers, yellow with age, and gave them

to Victoria. She perused them with bitter tears. Yes, indeed, here was

evidence in plenty, and as she finished reading she looked up to find

the mulatto’s eyes bent upon her, questioningly, and, as she thought,

pleadingly.

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

pointing to Roger.

Adam shook his head frowning slightly, while he motioned first to

himself and then out to sea.

“Do you wish to be free?” she asked again. “Do you want your freedom

papers with plenty of money?”

This time Adam laughed and bowed, then turning to Roger he placed his

hand upon his arm and shook his head pointing to the ground solemnly,

while he looked sadly at Victoria.

“I understand,” she said, “you wish to remain with us until—until Roger

shall be laid away. Then you will, in spite of your misfortune, seek a

new land where you may find a wife perhaps?”

Here Adam gesticulated violently, pointing to Victoria, then to some

little children playing on the beach, then folding his arms he rocked

gently to and fro while a bright smile irradiated his face.

“Ah, you are already married and have children?” exclaimed Victoria,

while Adam, delighted that his mistress had understood him, knelt and

kissed the hem of her gown.

“Very well Adam, I will see that all your wishes are complied with,” she

said, gently placing her hand upon his shoulder. “You have been faithful

and devoted. For many years you have been separated from your family.

You may never find them.”

He quickly drew from his pocket another paper, and Victoria, upon

opening it, found it to be a roughly drawn affidavit, that before

Justice McEuen, Adam Spencer, bond servant of George Spencer, of

Raleigh, N. C., and Rosa Jefferson, bond servant of James Jefferson, of

Raleigh, N. C., had been made man and wife according to the laws of

North Carolina regarding the marrying of slaves.

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

Victoria.

Adam again nodded his head.

“Would you like to have me write to him and buy you from him, and find

out if Rosa Jefferson and her children still live in Raleigh; for, of

course, your former master could claim you if you did not show freedom

papers from him.”

Adam delightedly danced upon the sands, extravagantly waving his hands

and trying vainly to articulate his pleasure at Victoria’s words, and

that same night Victoria wrote to the doctor all she had learned, and

begged him without delay to do everything necessary to free Adam.

Shortly after this another letter came, this time from James Vale, who,

yielding to her frequent pleadings, was about to take a needed and

well-deserved vacation, and would follow his letter as fast as land and

water would permit, and who would be with her ere she knew.

Victoria was glad. The kindly compassionate face of her uncle would be

most strengthening to her fast-failing courage. His wise counsel a safe

prop on which to lean. How she longed this moment for a sight of him.

Ah, she wished the letter had not come, but that he had taken her by

surprise.

The next day James Vale arrived, and Victoria had need of his

strengthening arm; his calm quiet voice; his never-failing wise

judgment, for a grim messenger had arrived before him, and had summoned

Roger to that land, where once more he should see, and the poor head

should again be made clear. He had retired apparently in no worse health

than usual, and Adam had watched beside him till he fell asleep. In the

morning when Adam awoke, surprised at not having been disturbed through

the night, as usual; he arose from his couch and approached the bed.

Roger lay with a sweet peaceful smile on his face, at rest at last.

Something in the quiet form struck a chill to Adam’s heart, and placing

his hand upon Roger’s forehead, he found it quite cold. He had gone away

forever.

When Victoria was told no gladness mingled with her grief; only a

thankfulness that at last the poor clouded brain was at rest. She did

not sorrow for him, he was infinitely better off, but she sorrowed for

the Roger of by-gone days, and for herself she wept. She went and stood

beside the silent form; she gazed at the quiet face which seemed to her

to take on the youthful look when first she had known him, and tears for

her young husband, for her first love, flowed unrestrainedly. The past

twenty years seemed but a dream. She was once more a youthful bride, and

Roger, her beloved, was again all in all to her. Raining kisses on his

peaceful face, she whispered words of love into his ears, closed

forever, and when James Vale arrived, it was to find Victoria beside the

bier of Roger, and talking to him as if he could hear and understand.

The brave woman who had suffered her trials for so many years with such

rare endurance, had at last succumbed.

Roger had been laid away for quite three weeks ere Victoria regained her

reason. At times the angel of death hovered very near, and James Vale

thought he could even hear the flutter of his wings, but to Victoria was

yet reserved, much of joy, and much of sorrow. The time had not come for

her to depart. When she had become convalescent, then, and not till

then, did James Vale tell her of another death, her mother’s. It had

come suddenly—a paralytic stroke. She died as she had lived,

unforgiving, and little Dora was heir to what was left, which had proved

but little after all had been settled.

Victoria wept for the mother who had been a loving, indulgent parent

until her child had crossed her will, and who had proved so unforgiving

to the end. The tears were more for the parent of her childhood. How

else could she mourn.

James Vale had written to America of Roger’s death. In those days news

traveled slowly, and it was fully six weeks after Victoria’s illness,

that one day, with Dora as companion, she went to visit Roger’s grave. A

rustic bench had been fashioned by one of the villagers, and presented

to Victoria, whose sorrow was respected by every rough man in the

village. She seated herself, and drew Dora to her side. The quietness of

the place soothed her, and her thoughts turned to the dear old home far,

far away. What was Mary doing at this moment, and Andrew, where was he?

Ah, if she only had wings to fly, how quickly would she traverse the

distance, and alight at the door of her home—the home where all her

great sorrows had been born, and where most exquisite joys had been

hers. Hark! She thought she heard her name breathed softly, tenderly.

Dora had heard it too, and had started from Victoria’s encircling arm.

“Cousin Victoria,” she whispered, “look there, the other side of cousin

Roger’s grave!”

Before Victoria raised her eyes she knew what she was about to behold. A

delicious tremor shook her frame. She felt as if her heart was being

drawn from her body. She lifted her trembling eyelids, and a cry burst

from her lips. Andrew, holding Mary by the hand, stood beside Roger’s

grave. His eyes were fastened upon her. His heart spoke through his

eyes. It said: “Come to me!” One hand he held outstretched.

Victoria arose. She placed her hands upon her eyes, then withdrew them.

The vision was still there. She stepped hesitatingly forward, her eyes

fixed upon Andrew; then, her form bending like a reed, swayed to and

fro, and Andrew, unloosing Mary’s clasp, sprang forward and caught the

fainting form of her who never more should leave him, in his arms.

FINIS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES’ PUBLICATIONS.

ASHES,

THE SINS OF THE FATHERS,

A FAIR PURITAN,

THE HOUSE OF FIVE GABLES.

READ THE FOLLOWING OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

The “_Bridgeport Standard_,” writing of the “Sins of the Fathers,” says:

This new work by Mrs. Holmes will, we think, continue and increase the

favorable opinions of her literary capacity made by her first book, and

the many readers of that will find the same qualities strengthened

somewhat perhaps in this. Mrs. Holmes has chosen what might be called a

“domestic theme,” for the lives and sufferings, the plots and successes,

the faults and failures of character entirely in the private sphere of

life, would bring the story within that designation. In the portrayal of

character, the weaving of plot and counter-plot, the injection of action

which awakens interest, and in the general unfolding of a tale which

keeps one reading unwearied to the end, Mrs. Holmes is surely

successful, and her rank is destined to be no mean one among the

acknowledged novelists of our time.

The “_Albany Journal_,” speaking of “Ashes,” writes:

This is a tale of a weak, frail girl, guided by her impulses, through

trouble and sorrow, until she was brought to see the folly of acting on

the spur of the moment. This book has many good points, and the author

has worked with a good purpose to good results.

A FAIR PURITAN, by Mary Johnson Holmes, author of Ashes; The Sins of

the Fathers, &c., &c. New York: Hurst & Co., pub.; paper, 50 cents.

This story is one of Mrs. Holmes’ best, and it will possess an

additional interest to readers in this vicinity, from the fact that the

scene is laid in Connecticut, and that Bridgeport and the surrounding

towns are a part of its stage setting. The story is well told, full of

interesting incident and analysis of character, never dropping below the

safe moral standards which Mrs. Holmes always follows, and keeping up

the interest of the reader to the end. The plot is well laid and

effectively worked out, and the details are studied with a care and

faithfulness which is characteristic of the author. It will add to her

reputation as a writer and increase the circle of her appreciative

readers.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in

spelling.

2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.

3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.