CHAPTER IV.
They had been travelling for nearly two months, visiting the mountains and the different lakes, and Mary was beginning to think about getting toward New York and Roger, when without any warning came a telegram, announcing a fatal explosion which had resulted in the probable loss of both eyes to Roger. He was in a hospital and wanted his mother. Mary lost no time in going to him taking Andrew with her, and leaving Lady Vale and her daughter to return to the “Five Gables,” and make everything comfortable for the invalid’s reception, for Mary determined on taking Roger home as soon as permissable.
In the hurried preparation for departure, Andrew saw no way in which to broach the subject of his love for Victoria. He doubted if she would listen kindly when so agitated by his mother’s keen distress, so he bade the girl who had become so dear to him, a calm good-bye, and left her with a strange sinking at the heart, which he knew was not caused by the news of his brother’s accident, but by a presentiment of something about to befall Victoria.
Lady Vale and Victoria hurried back to Mary’s home, and there waited in sorrow for the home-coming of one whom they knew to be his mother’s idol. Mary had written that there was “no hope that Roger would ever see again, but they dare not tell him just yet. Let him fully recover from the shock to his nervous system.”
Lady Vale’s eyes filled with tears as she read the letter, which showed plainly a mother’s buried hopes. “Poor Mary,” she said as she handed the letter to Victoria. “The sun of her world has gone down never to rise again. Her hopes have all been centered in that boy. She seemed to care but little for Andrew. It was all Roger, Roger with her. How will she bear this heavy cross?”
Victoria took the letter, and stole up to the picture-gallery, and stood before Roger’s smiling, winsome face. “Could it be possible that the light of those laughing eyes had gone out forever? Ah no. God was good. He would restore to Roger his sight,” she felt sure.
They arrived at evening when everything was hushed and still, and a quiet peaceful calm rested on the home nest. Victoria watched the carriage being driven up to the door, then she fled to her room. She could not meet him yet. Not till the sorrow of being in his childhood’s home, which his eyes never more would gaze upon, had lost its first bitterness. She had seen Mary descend from the carriage weeping, and had seen Andrew assist a blindfolded figure tenderly out, and she realized that she had no part in their grief; that she was only a stranger, and a vague longing took possession of her—a longing to be nearer the stricken one; a wish to take a sister’s part in nursing him back to health and strength.
In a few moments, she went down, but not into the family sitting-room. She took a light wrap from the rack in the hall, and passed quietly out into the fast gathering twilight; but the quick eye of Andrew had seen her form pass the open door, and he followed her, glad of the chance to see her alone. She turned as she heard his step, and although the darkness partly concealed his face, she noticed the glad ring in his voice as he came quickly up to her, and took both her hands in his. “Victoria, sweet one, are you glad that I am back? Did you miss me? Oh how your pure face maddens me,” and before she had realized what he was about to do, he had caught her to him, and had pressed a burning kiss upon her lips.
Victoria struggled to free herself, but she failed, and indignantly looked up into the face of her captor. His eyes shone with a strange light. She felt a dreamy languor stealing upon her, a desire to sleep. What did it mean? Had this man a power over her which she was unable to resist? Horrible thought. She made one more feeble attempt to get away, and then lay passive and quiet in his arms.
He looked gloatingly down at his helpless burden. “I have conquered,” he whispered hoarsely. “She cannot fly from me now. She is mine. Victoria, my sweet angel?”
“Yes,” she answered faintly.
“Put your arms about my neck and kiss me.”
She slowly did as he bade her, but there was no expression in the white face pressed to his, no passion in the kiss. Only a passive obedience to his will, which shamed him, hardened though he was, and he felt no pleasure in the caress which he had been obliged to gain by force. He gently drew her to a rustic seat, and fanned her with his hat. In a few moments she breathed a low sigh and looked up into his face; then she started to her feet and would have fled if he had not caught her arm and held her.
“Let me go,” she cried. “You hurt me.”
“Victoria, be seated for a moment until I can explain,” he said pleadingly. “I have not meant to be harsh with you. Any culprit has a right to plead his cause and ask for mercy. Then will you hear me?”
“I will hear you,” she answered coldly, “but I prefer to stand.”
“That means that you have no confidence in me,” he retorted bitterly. “You are safe from my touch, Victoria. I shall never lay hands on you again without your permission. I did not mean to frighten you, I had no intention of doing as I did. I was a brute. Will you forgive me?”
“No,” she answered indignantly.
His lips parted in a dangerous smile. “You will not forgive me this slight offense. Then if I am in disgrace with you I might as well tell you all. I love you! Stay, Victoria,” as she turned toward the house. “You shall hear me. I adore you! Life will not be worth living if you do not share it with me. I want you for my wife, and I mean to have you. Yes,” as she scornfully tossed her head. “As surely as this moon shines in the sky above us, just as surely will I win you for my wife. You do not think so now; you say in your mind, ‘I hate him,’ but the time will come when you shall humbly place your arms about my neck, and say of your own free will, ‘I love you; I am yours.’”
If Victoria had been a girl of the period she might have returned a saucy and spirited answer, but being a young lady carefully reared by an English mamma, and living long before slang was invented, she simply said: “Are you done, Mr. Willing?”
“Yes, I am done, Lady Victoria Vale.’
“Thank you for placing me on my guard. I shall know how to meet you from this time on,” and with these words she turned and left him.
Andrew sat for some time in deep thought. He was not disheartened at the turn affairs had taken. He knew his power and meant to use it, but in a more temperate way than he had begun. He must be careful and not frighten the bird away, or all would be lost. So long as she staid under the same roof with him, he was confident of success.
Victoria made one great mistake. She did not tell her mother. At first she felt ashamed, humiliated, and dared not confide in her best friend. She knew that her mother would immediately start for England, and she did not want to go. She loved Mary dearly, and now here was Roger afflicted sorely, and she had promised Mary to be his eyes for a while at any rate. Then why should she allow her hatred of Andrew to drive her away from duty, and why should she tell her mother of a disagreeable episode which would never occur again. It would only disturb her, so Victoria met Andrew at breakfast the next morning with a serene countenance, and the two elder ladies dreamed not of the tempest in the two young hearts.
Roger did not appear at breakfast. He was still very much fatigued from his journey, and dreading to meet strangers with this affliction still new upon him, he breakfasted in his own rooms, which Mary had made the brightest and most cheerful looking in the house, even if her darling could not see them. She hastily drank a cup of coffee, then begging to be excused, saying “Roger would feel lonely if left too long,” she went out, leaving Lady Vale with Victoria to entertain Andrew.
Victoria looked after Mary with wistful eyes. How she longed to accompany her, and beg to be allowed to minister to the invalid’s many wants.
Lady Vale glanced rather anxiously at Victoria’s pale face and drooping eyes. “Are you not well, my love?” she asked.
Victoria started, and a faint rose color supplanted the lily in her cheeks. “I was not aware of feeling other than in the best of health, dear mamma. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I thought your general expression savored of lassitude; lacked vivacity, as it were. No doubt the depressingly warm weather has something to do with it. Now that Mary is again at home and does not need us, would you like to visit some of the lakes, or perhaps the mountains?”
Andrew listened almost breathlessly for Victoria’s reply. He expected to hear a quick assent to Lady Vale’s proposition. After his rough conduct of last night Victoria would gladly make her escape from his hateful presence. He could hardly conceal a smile of delight as Victoria laughed lightly, and said: “Ah, mamma, what did I tell you the other day? Did I not say that you were sadly in need of spectacles? That your eyesight was rapidly failing you? And this proves it. To think that you should imagine I was losing my health. I never felt better in my life. I do not care to travel. What more enchanting spot can we find than this? I never tire of its beauties, besides I promised dear Mrs. Willing to lighten her labor of love, by assisting her in reading to, and caring for, the invalid. Would it be courtesy on our part to leave her just at the time when she needs us most?”
“Certainly not, my daughter. If such be the case, we will stay by all means. I only spoke of going away because I felt concerned as to your health.”
“Then let your heart be reassured, dear mamma,” answered Victoria, rising and kissing Lady Vale. “I feel more than usually bright this morning. Will you walk with me down by the lake? We have still a few more lines of Virgil to translate.”
“With pleasure, my love. Will you not accompany us, Andrew?”
Andrew hesitated, and was about to assent, when a warning flash from Victoria’s eyes stayed him. It plainly said “Do not inflict your presence any longer upon me, sir. I shall rebel.”
“I am extremely sorry, Lady Vale, but I have sadly neglected my duties in being away from home caring for Roger. I must now go over the different plantations, and start immediately, so adieu for to-day and possibly for several days. I may find much to detain me.” He bowed courteously to Victoria, gallantly kissed Lady Vale’s hand, and left the room.
Victoria’s heart gave a bound of relief. “Now I shall be my old self again,” she thought. “Relieved of his odious watchful eyes following me everywhere, I can again be natural. Ugh! I feel as if a snake had crawled over me, and left its nasty trail behind.”
She gave her arm to Lady Vale. “Come mamma, let us get out into the beautiful sunlight, among the fragrant blooming trees. I feel stifled here.”
They had been down by the lake over an hour. Lady Vale with her white hands idly resting in her lap, was watching two swans which were sailing majestically on the placid bosom of the water, while she listened to the sweet voice of Victoria, reading the closing lines of Virgil. Suddenly she looked toward the avenue, and placed her hand on Victoria’s arm. “Hush, daughter, I heard voices. Ah, I thought I was not mistaken. It is Mary leading her son. Is not that a touching sight? Who could look upon it without being affected. The mother, her hair whitened with years, bending her form under the weight of her stalwart youthful son upon whom she has centered all her hopes.”
Victoria raised her head, and her eyes filled with tears. Roger’s head was bent until his lips touched his mother’s hair. They were still too far away for her to distinguish what they were saying.
“How does the dear old place look, mother mine? Is it changed?”
“Not at all, dear Roger. The peacocks are strutting on the lawn. The swans are sailing on the lake, and, oh my darling, the fairest girl who ever lived is sitting on the stone seat which you fashioned with your own hands when but a lad. You ran away from her, but fate, or a kind Providence which ever you will, has decreed that you are to meet. You are not averse to it, my son?”
“Not now, mother. I can be nothing but an object of pity to her, and as for me, all interest in anything feminine has ceased forever.”
Victoria rose and advanced to meet them.
“Oh, if you could only see her now,” exclaimed Mary. “She is tall and most beautifully formed. Her complexion is like roses; her eyes like stars; but they are filled with tears, my son; and those tears are for you; and the expression on her sweet face is such, that if you could but see it, you would take her in your arms and kiss the tears away. It is not pity. It is love; maidenly love, which as yet does not know that it loves.”
Victoria was near enough now to hear Roger say: “Mother, you speak wildly. What do you mean?” and she wondered what Mary had been saying.
“Ah, Victoria, I missed you, and wondered where you had hidden. Roger, this is Lady Victoria Vale, of whom you have often heard me speak.”
Roger pressed the little hand placed within his, and smiled. Victoria thought she had never seen a more winning smile, yet it was full of sadness.
“Yes, I ought to know Lady Victoria Vale very well,” he said, still retaining her hand; “but I should like to have met her under brighter circumstances.” He lightly touched the bandage about his eyes. “If I could but tear off this hateful band, and be able to see the beautiful vision which my mother is never tired of praising! But that pleasure is denied me. I must be content to see only with her eyes.”
Victoria blushed and withdrew her hand.
“Dear Mrs. Willing is partial, and I am afraid sees only with the eyes of love. She says she loves me as she would a daughter, so you must excuse any little exaggerations on her part.”
Mary had gone on and left the young people together, while she spoke with Lady Vale. “Come,” continued Victoria, “let me introduce you to my mother. Shall I become your guide? Your mother has basely deserted you.”
“Hail to her desertion,” laughed Roger as he felt Victoria’s arm slip into his. “This is a lucky exchange of companions for me. Are you not taller than my mother?”
“Somewhat,” replied Victoria, leading him to her mother who rose and grasped both his hands, kissing him tenderly.
“Ah! this is indeed a greeting worth having,” cried Roger. “See what it is to be an invalid. I doubt if you would have accorded me this honor, had I been presented to you six months ago, Lady Vale.”
“Who knows,” replied Lady Vale, who saw that Roger chose to make light of his affliction, and did not wish too much sympathy expressed. “I am glad that I am not a young lady. I am afraid I should lose my heart. You are too dangerous as it is. No wonder your mother’s life is all centered in you.”
Roger’s laugh rang out joyously, and Mary smiled to see him in such good spirits.
“Ah, Lady Vale, it is very plain to be seen that you have visited Ireland, and kissed the ‘Blarney Stone,’” said Roger.
Lady Vale placed her hand on the young man’s arm. “My dear boy,” she said gravely, “I love your mother as I would a sister. I love her sons because they are her sons. I have mourned with her over this affliction which has come upon you, until you have become very near to me. There has has been no flattery meant in the few words I have spoken.”
Roger grasped the white hand still lying on his arm, and carried it to his lips, while his voice had a suspicious tremble in it as he said, “I never longed for my sight as I do at this moment. My mother has undertaken to describe you, but I am sure her description must fall far short of the reality. How is it that I am blessed with so charming a trio to minister to my comfort, and to help to chase dull care away? I have been anything but a docile invalid, have I not, mother mine?”
“You have been most patient, my son. Indeed, I have wondered how you could bear all that you have with such rare fortitude, but sit down on this rustic seat made by yourself, and rest. I am sure Victoria will most gladly take upon herself the task of entertaining you, while Lady Vale accompanies me to the gardener’s cottage. I must see him before luncheon.”
Roger smiled as his mother gently pressed him into the old stone seat, and walked away with Lady Vale. Victoria stood a short distance from him, looking out over the lake, and thinking: “What shall I say to him? I must be cheerful while I feel just like crying, and I can’t think of a pleasant word to say. I wish I had a good book. One never need to exert themselves when they can read something interesting. I will ask him who is his favorite author, then step up to the house and select it.”
“Am I deserted?” said Roger, putting out his hand gropingly. “I thought I heard my mother say that Lady Victoria Vale would stay by me.”
“I am here,” replied Victoria, moving nearer. Roger touched her dress.
“There used to be room enough for two on this stone. It has not changed, I think. Will you not sit beside me? I like to have people near while I talk to them.”
Victoria complied, blushing slightly, as there was scant room for two, and necessitated the placing of Roger’s arm over the back of the seat.
“How ridiculous of me to blush,” she thought, “he can’t see me.”
“Now tell me how you like our home, Lady Victoria. Is it not the fairest spot you have ever seen?”
“It is very beautiful, Mr. Willing, but I know one fairer, and more dear to me.”
“Ah! I can guess without further explanation from you. It is your English home. Let me see, what is the name of it? I have heard my mother say.”
“Valecourt, Mr. Willing. Oh, it is so beautiful. I wish you might see it.” She stopped in confusion, as a pained expression rested for a moment upon Roger’s face. “Oh, what have I said, pray forgive me, Mr. Willing. I am such a blunderer. I had forgotten your affliction.”
“Don’t make any excuses,” replied Roger, trying to laugh cheerfully. “You were wishing I might see your home so far away. What is to hinder me? I will see it now by proxy. You shall describe it so graphically that I shall need no eyes, and perhaps, who knows, in the years to come I may gaze upon its beauties. I shall not always be blind.”
Victoria gazed at the young man pityingly. She knew how hopeless was his case by Mary’s despairing letters. “Would it not be better if he knew?” she thought. “Would it not be more charitable to tell him the truth?” She would consult Mrs. Willing.
Roger continued. “I will forgive you on one condition. That you drop the formal Mr. Willing, and call me Roger. No one calls me Mr. Willing, except strangers, and you are not a stranger. You are my cousin. Your mother said as much. She said she was my mother’s sister. I’ll tell you what we will do. I hate the handle to your name. I am too thoroughly American to enjoy titles, although my parents were of English blood. I’ll call you Cousin Victoria, while to you I am Cousin Roger.”
“Agreed,” said Victoria, laughing. “I never did like those near to me to call me Lady Victoria. It places me miles away from them.”
Roger felt a strange thrill in the region of his heart as Victoria said “those near to me.” Then he was one of the fortunate “those.” How soon would it be ere he could dispense with the hateful bandage, and look upon the face of the sweet-voiced maiden, who so unconsciously said such comforting things?
“Let us begin without delay, then, Cousin Victoria; tell me of your fair English home, Valecourt.”
While Victoria pictured her home to Roger, Lady Vale and Mary walked slowly toward the gardener’s cottage arm in arm.
“You have guessed my hopes, dear Augusta, or I should say, what was once my hope, in regard to your child and my Roger.”
“Yes, Mary,” and Lady Vale pressed her friends hand tenderly. “Shattered hopes. I will say that I should not have been averse to their union, had Roger been in full possession of his health, but now—dear Mary, you surely cannot wish it, while of course Victoria will not allow herself to love a blind man. Think of what a future hers would be, tied for life to a never-ceasing care. Ah no, it can never, never be.”
Mary burst into tears. “My poor boy! What a dark prospect lies before him. I must tell him the physician’s decision, though the telling break my heart.”
“Has he enough strength of will, think you, to bear up under it? When he knows there is no hope, will he do as so many have done before him? Will he take his own life.”
“God forbid! Oh Augusta, you are a mother; pity a sorrowing mother’s breaking heart, and promise me, that if God brings those two young hearts together, and they love, in spite of Roger’s affliction, promise me that you will consent to their union; that you will do nothing to separate them?”
Mary stopped and wound her arms around Lady Vale, who kissed the tear-stained face of her friend. “It is a hard thing to promise, dear Mary.”
“Ah! but my heart will break if you do not. Think of how little Roger will have to make him happy. Think of what a joy such a love as Victoria’s would be to him. They may not love, but if they do, will you promise me not to withhold your consent? Do Augusta, or my life will be miserable.” And Lady Vale, although her heart misgave her, finally consented, hoping that Victoria’s good sense would prevent her from doing anything so rash.