CHAPTER I.
Many years ago there stood on a high bluff over-looking the island which is now the site of a portion of Wheeling, West Virginia, a house known far and near as the house of five gables. It was built of sand-stone and brick; the gables were of wood; it was not a thing of beauty, and a beholder seeing it for the first time, was sure to pause and exclaim at its rare ugliness, which enchained the eye; and its quaint irregular shape appealed in a way to one’s feelings, much as a crippled, mishapen being might have done. It had not always been thus. It began life as a modest story-and-a-half cottage, and for several years could only boast of two gables, but with a change of owners there came a change of architecture also, until if old Sir Roger Willing, the original builder, could have risen from his grave he would have found it difficult to have discovered a foot of his own handiwork.
Old Sir Roger’s great-grandfather was one of the hundred settlers sent from England by Sir Thomas Gates in the year 1607, and settled in Jamestown; and rumor whispered that it was he who bought twenty African negroes from a Dutch man-of-war, and so introduced negro slavery into Virginia in the year 1619.
Sir Roger himself was not long behind Governor Spotswood in crossing the Blue Ridge, and forming a home in what, after more than a century, became West Virginia.
There had always been a Roger Willing from that time until now. An elder son, who kept the old ancestral home, adding to it odd corners as the fancy took him, and dying bequeathed it to another Roger, with the solemn injunction never to sell or part with it come what might. There had been some good Rogers, and there had been some very, very bad ones. Strange tales were wont to be whispered of the goings on inside the old gray walls under the reign of “Jolly Prince Roger,” a grandson of old Roger the fourth. That was in 1763, when Benjamin Harrison was Governor, and when Wheeling was known as Fort Henry. Young “Prince Roger” had just come into his kingdom as it were, meaning the old stone house now boasting three gables and numberless added corners; many acres of tobacco, and a prolific bank account. Roger’s father had been a man with one idea; to make money. The idea how to spend it he had never cultivated, therefore Roger upon coming into possession of what his father had so carefully hoarded, speedily set to work to make ducks and drakes of it, and he gathered about him plenty of profligate assistants, who helped him turn night into day, and day into night, until their wild orgies became the talk for miles around.
A beautiful slave girl was installed housekeeper, and she ruled with a high hand. She ordered a new wing to be added to the old house, and another gable. Stained glass, a great rarity in those days, was brought from foreign parts, and fitted as windows in the new gable. Costly carpets, and tapestries of foreign make covered the floors and walls. Rare treasures costing fabulous prices, were scattered lavishly about the rooms; unique chandeliers of brass fishes filled with sperm oil, the light issuing from the fishes’ mouths, were wonders to the class of visitors who worshipped at Bella’s shrine. Here she reigned queen for ten years, until one morning, Roger woke up to find himself at the end of his resources. All his ready money squandered. The old house mortgaged, and a fair prospect of being without a place to lay his head ere many months should pass. He was dazed, bewildered, as the truth became a certainty, and he wandered over the fair lands which any day might be snatched from him, bemoaning his fate, and cursing it as well. His companions in prosperity had all fled at the first hint of adversity, as fair weather friends have a habit of doing, and he had no one to advise him in his hour of trouble.
The man to whom the property was mortgaged called occasionally, “to gloat”—as Roger said—“over the prospect of in time possessing the fair estate.”
“But by heavens! he never shall be master here. Never! Not if I have to sell my soul to the devil to get the money,” was Roger’s cry. He went to Bella for suggestions as to the best course to pursue, but she merely laughed at him.
“Do as I do,” she told him. “Don’t bother your head over nothing. It don’t pay. It only makes you wrinkled and old, years before your time. Sell the old rattletrap. It ain’t mortgaged for near what its worth, and the money you have left over will keep us for a few years anyhow.”
“I can’t sell it,” Roger answered. “More’s the pity. I’m bound by word to the dead.”
“Bound by your fiddlesticks!” laughed Bella scornfully. “What will the dead ever know or care about it; you are a soft head; ha, ha, ha!”
Roger went out leaving Bella still laughing. He was disgusted, weary. Yes, almost tired of life, and he walked around the grounds to a little lake which he had made for Bella’s pleasure. The water was deep enough to drown one, if one chose to just lie down without a struggle, and it would be an easy way to end it all; but something whispered that such a mode of escape would be cowardly, and with all his faults, the one of cowardice had never been laid to Roger Willing.
For days his mind continued in a state bordering on lunacy. Then like a ray of sunlight, there came to him a letter from across the seas. It was from a great uncle, his grandfather’s brother, who had not taken kindly to American soil, and had gone to the land of his ancestors, there to build up a colossal fortune. He had only one heir, a son, who dying left a daughter, Mary Willing. This child had now arrived at a marrying age. There was no one good enough for her in all England. Many letters had travelled between Roger’s father and Mary’s. They had had it in their minds to unite the English sovereign with the American dollar; but Mary was at that time too young, and Roger’s father had died ere he could express his desires to his son. Now, Grandpa Willing being Mary’s guardian, had thought it about time to broach the subject to his brother’s grandson. If he was heart free would he come over to old England, and form Mary’s acquaintance? She had sixty thousand pounds in her own right, and when her old grandfather died, her dot would be considerably increased.
Roger stared at the letter, and could hardly realize his own good fortune. Going to England in those days could not be called a pleasure trip. It meant many weeks of rough tossing on angry billows. Of a possible loss of life, but Roger gave not one thought to the dangers or privations attendant to his journey. He looked forward to the golden goal at the end, and cared not for what came between. He went to the richest man in Fort Henry and showed him the letter, asking him if he would advance a thousand dollars on a second mortgage, for he felt confident of winning his cousin’s affections. The man consented, and Roger made ready for his journey in great glee. To Bella he said, “that if he wanted to save his home he must go abroad,” which was true enough.
“Give me and my child our freedom papers,” cried Bella, excitedly. “You always said you would, but you’ve put it off as you do everything, and if you are lost at sea, and never come back, we shall be sold to the Lord knows who.”
“All right, honey, I’ll tend to it sure before I go,” replied Roger, carelessly, and as a matter of course he forgot all about it, the time came, and he sailed away with Bella’s loud wailing ringing in his ears.
He reached England in safety, and found his cousin all that her grandfather had pictured her; bright, rosy-cheeked, and if she lacked beauty, still she was good to look upon, and the golden sovereigns at her command, gave a wonderful luster to her otherwise commonplace appearance.
Roger’s wooing was short, but most satisfactory to all concerned. Mary adored her handsome cousin. He was so very different from any young man she had ever known. His rather free manners attracted and repelled her at the same time; but she fell more deeply in love every day, so that Roger’s proposal was hardly to be called one, for he just said: “Mary, when shall we be married?” While she answered, meekly: “Whenever you please, Roger.”
“The sooner the better then,” was his reply. “It’s a great nuisance this getting married. It should be abolished.”
Grandpa Willing was more than satisfied with Roger’s account of his possessions. He made him describe over and over the old house with its many rooms and queer angles. Roger told of the goodly bank account which his father left, also of the vast fields of tobacco, but he forgot to mention the heavy mortgage resting upon the home; and the old man rubbed his hands gleefully at the wedding which he had brought about so skillfully.
It is not necessary to linger over the brief betrothal, or the happy bridal, for at least to one of the participants, the wedding morning was the happiest of her hitherto uneventful life, and just before she was led by a bevy of laughing bridesmaids to meet the bridegroom, she devoutly knelt in the privacy of her chamber, and thanked God for the treasure about to become hers; for the gift of an honest man’s love, and she asked for a divine blessing to rest on her beloved from that time forth.
As for Roger, he drew on his gloves with an air of ennui, and confidentially remarked to his mirror, that if it were not for those golden sovereigns beckoning him on, he would flunk at the last moment, for the very thought of marriage was distasteful to him; and at the altar, as the clergyman asked in solemn tones, “Wilt thou have this woman to be thy lawful wedded wife?” it was not Mary whom he saw standing by his side, but one of duskier hue, who raised her appealing eyes to his and asked that justice be done her and hers. He heard again that despairing cry which had been the last sound to fall upon his ears as he had driven from his home, and it is no wonder that he cast a wild glance behind him, ere his trembling lips whispered faintly, “I do.” But no voice denouncing him interrupted the ceremony, which bound a trusting, God-fearing woman, to an unscrupulous atheist, and Roger drew a deep breath of relief as he found himself outside the church, away from the nodding, gaping crowd, who to his excited fancy all seemed to point jeeringly at him; and although it was a bitter cold day, great drops of moisture stood on his face, which Mary in true wifely fashion brushed away with her dainty cobweb handkerchief; thereby taking upon herself a bondage which was never broken, until death claimed her husband.
Roger’s true character was soon revealed to Mary. The honeymoon had hardly waned ere her idol lay shattered at her feet. He had decided to do Paris, and one or two gambling places before he started for America, and Mary followed where ere her lord and master led. She spent one delightful week in Paris, driving, walking, dining with Roger, and then, the heavenly blue of her sky was suddenly overcast by a dark threatening cloud which never entirely lifted through all her life.
She remembered that day so well in after years. She had been more gay than usual, singing ridiculous little nursery songs all to herself, as she dressed in evening costume, so as to be ready the moment Roger came in. Roger did not like to be kept waiting “dear fellow,” and they were going to the opera of which Mary was passionately fond. She donned a pretty blue silk flounced to the waist, each flounce edged with priceless lace. Roger had admired it above all her other dresses, so of course none other must be worn. After dressing she sat down to await his coming, and she waited long. The moments grew into hours, and still he did not come. Supper time came and passed. The hour on which they should have been starting for the opera was struck off saucily, by the little clock on the mantle, yet he was absent, and Mary walked the floor, wringing her hands in wild despair, imagining all sorts of horrors. Now she saw his dear form torn and bleeding, being pulled from beneath the feet of prancing steeds; again, she was viewing his lifeless body as it was tenderly placed at her feet by strangers, and it was with a cry of almost gladness, that just as the dawn was breaking she heard muffled voices at the door. “Thank God! the uncertainty was over. Better anything than this awful suspense which was driving her mad.” She thought she heard a laugh. “Ah! then he was not dead. No person, however heartless, could laugh if death were near them.” She tremblingly slid back the bolt.
“Stand him up against the door,” she heard a voice in French say.
“What are you talking about?” another voice answered. “He can’t stand. He’s too far gone for that.”
Mary groaned, and dreading what her eyes might behold, she opened the door just as Roger called feebly: “Shay, you fel—felis, don’ go off an’ leave a fel like this; hic, I’m sick, awful sick, hic, so I am.”
Mary saw two men going down the dimly-lighted hall, and realizing her inability to lift or drag the burly form of her husband inside, she called, indignantly: “Come back and assist me. Are you devoid of all human feeling, that you desert a fellow-being in distress?”
The men turned at her call, and she saw that one was the night porter, while the other a stranger, was in full evening dress. He lifted his hat respectfully, and stooped over Roger, shaking him vigorously.
“Arouse yourself,” he said in French.
“Speak United States,” muttered Roger, “I don’t unstan’ beastly la’guage. United States only la’guage in whole world, whole world, do you hear? An’ I’ll fight er’body who says taint.”
Both men laughed, while Mary wrung her hands, crying, “Oh, what has happened him?” Then remembering that perhaps neither of these men could understand English, she turned to the porter and said in French: “Tell me what has happened to Monsieur Willing. Has he become suddenly insane?”
The porter looked at the stranger and smiled. “He knows,” he answered.
Mary turned inquiringly to the stranger, who again bowed profoundly. “Monsieur is not ill, Madame. Only a little indisposed. He has been spending the night among a jolly lot of fellows. He lost rather heavily at cards, and naturally took a few glasses too much. He will be all right by morning.”
“A few glasses too much,” echoed Mary, starting back. “Do you mean to infer that he is drunk?”
The stranger bowed his head, saying softly: “That word might be applied to his condition outside polite society. We seldom use so harsh an appelation.”
“Oh!” said Mary, looking with disgust at the form at her feet, “thank you for being so considerate of my feelings. It seems I have much to learn in regard to polite French society. We English call things by their proper names. Take him inside and then go.”
When Mary was left alone with her husband who had fallen into a drunken slumber, she sat and gazed at him long and earnestly. Her thoughts were far from being pleasant ones. “So this is the end of my happy marriage which I foolishly thought could never be anything but happy. A sweet dream rudely broken in one short week. What have I done that I should be so harshly punished? Tenderly cherished by a fond, adoring father, and taught by him to abhor vice in any form; and after his death surrounded by the protecting love of my dear grandfather, how can I cope with this horror which has so suddenly been thrust upon me. Can I go to grandfather with my trouble? Ah, no. He is old, and the knowledge of my unhappiness might send him to his grave. I must adopt some severe plan by which to cure my husband of this evil which will so soon wreck his life, and my own, if he continues. Yes, that is the better plan, but how shall I begin? Is not my woman’s wit equal to this emergency? It should be.”
She sat for some few moments in deep thought. Then she arose with an air of determination, saying: “The remedy is severe, but if it only effects a cure I can rejoice.”
She bent over the sleeping man and pinched him several times, calling him by name. He slept on. The only difference being that he snored more musically than before. Mary smiled. “He will never know,” she whispered. Then stepping to his dressing room, she brought forth his shaving materials. She had often watched him shave, and thought it an easy matter to handle a razor. She did not think so now when, after lathering well his head, she attempted to remove the hair without cutting the scalp. She stopped in despair after three unsuccessful attempts. Then with renewed energy which challenged defeat, she began again, and in a short time, though it could not be called a work of art, Roger’s head was shorn of its curly black locks, and Mary viewed her work with satisfaction. She called a servant and despatched him for a pound of mustard, and when she received it she was not long in making several plasters, and applying them to various parts of Roger’s body where their superior qualities would be appreciated the most. Then she sat down to await the result. She had not changed her pretty dress. It was nearly ruined, but she did not give a thought to that. She wanted Roger to see her still in evening dress.
Presently a groan followed by another still louder told that her patient was awakening. “Water, water,” he moaned, “for God’s sake give me water! I’m burning to death. Am I in hell? Mary, Mary, where are you? Where am I? What has happened me?”
Mary knelt by his side. “Oh Roger! dear Roger, how thankful I am to hear you speak once more. You have been very, very ill.”
“Then I am on earth,” he said feebly, trying to raise his head from the pillow so as to gaze fully upon the familiar objects scattered about. “I thought I’d got ’em again, or something. Suffering Job, what am I in, a bed of fire? Talk of torments. There is no worse torment than this.”
He uttered another cry which rang through the room.
Mary turned her face to hide her smiles, and said sweetly: “They are only mustard plasters dear husband. Don’t revile them. They have saved your life. They are grandfather’s great cure all’s for every ill and——”
“Damn grandfather and his plasters!” broke in Roger, savagely grinding his teeth. “Take ’em off. Do you hear me? Take ’em off.”
Mary was willing to obey, as by this time a good blister from each one was sure to have matured, but she moderately took her time. “Not until you beg my pardon for swearing at grandfather. You have good cause to bless him, for if it had not been for his remedy you would surely have died.”
“Father Isaac and all the patriarchs! will you stop your silly twaddle, and remove these rags, or by heaven! when they do come off I’ll clap ’em on to you.”
Mary knew that she was safe, for on both palms was a generous supply of mustard.
“Say you are sorry for what you said, then I will.”
“I won’t, not if I die for it. I’ll ring for a servant.” He leaped from the couch only to fall back with a groan. More mustard on the soles of his feet. “Do you want to kill me?” he yelled.
“Far from it Roger, darling. I only want to make you well.”
“Thank you,” he sneered, “you are succeeding admirably. Oh, Mary, Mary, for the love of heaven, will you take them off?”
Mary looked at him.
“I’m sorry, oh yes, I’m sorry I said that awful word. I’m so sorry, that if I had your grandfather here I’d make him eat the whole business.”
Mary smiled, and slowly undid the bandages from his feet. “You have said you are sorry, dear. That is sufficient without emphasizing it. I know how you feel. Grandfather is always irritable after using them.”
Roger muttered something which sounded suspiciously like a repetition of his fond speech on grandfather, but Mary wisely closed her ears, and as the last bandage was removed, Roger gave a huge sigh of relief, and said: “Now, tell me the meaning of this idiotic performance, and why you have tortured me with that old man’s infernal remedy; but hold on, there’s one on my head yet, you didn’t take off.”
“Oh no, dear, I didn’t put any on your head.”
“Much obliged for your thoughtfulness. Something is the matter, though. It feels as if it had been scalped.”
“I only shaved it, dear Roger. That’s all.”
“That’s all!” he gasped. “By the jumping jupiter! ain’t that enough? What in Tophet did I marry you for, I wonder?”
“Because you loved me.”
“That’s all bosh. I never cared a rap for you.” He laughed harshly, enjoying the look of pain and fear upon her face.
“Then you did not even love me when you were courting me?”
“Not a picaune. I’ve got a yellow girl home I care more for than I do for you. How do you like that?”
Mary buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. Her idol’s coarse, brutal character stood fully revealed. The thin veneer was brushed like a cobweb from the rotten porous wood, exposing the architect’s poor carpentering.
“I will go home to my grandfather,” she sobbed.
“All right, go. You’ve got my full consent, but remember, you can’t take a cent of your sixty thousand pounds along. That became mine when you did, and I mean to hold on to it.”