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.