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.