CHAPTER V.
Andrew’s illness was of long duration, and Victoria had worn herself almost to a shadow in her efforts to nurse him without any help, except what the doctor and Adam, who was not always at liberty, could give her. She had plenty of time for serious thought while in the sick room. In fact she thought too much, and brought upon herself that most dreadful of all maladies, insomnia. Sometimes, after being all night beside Andrew, attending to the many wants which an invalid requires, she would seek her couch almost dead for the want of sleep, only to find as her head touched the pillow, that all desire for sleep had left her, and that her eyes would not remain closed; while strange fancies and wild thoughts ran riot in her brain; and she often rose from her pillow unrefreshed by not so much as a half hour’s sleep. She did not tell the doctor, for every day, she thought, would be the last of her miserable feelings, and she would then find rest. She did not neglect the poor invalid in the Western gable. Many hours when she should have been resting were spent by her in trying to bring light to the darkened mind. Her bitterest tears were shed in that room where Adam was the only witness. She acknowledged to herself with sorrow and shame, that her wifely love for Roger was forever dead. That the man who ruined her life, held her heart by a cord which she would not break if she could. With every feeble throb of his pulse she felt her love grow stronger, and she knew that if he died her soul would follow his. Her love for Roger was in a great measure the same which she felt for Mary, a brooding motherly love, tender in the extreme, yet so different from the fiery flame which burned her whenever she heard Andrew calling her in tones of passionate entreaty, though the tongue which uttered them was inflamed by fever, and the man knew not what he said.
He had been ill three weeks, and in all that time not a gleam of consciousness had shown in the fever-lighted eyes. No ray of light had come to the clouded brain. Victoria hung over him, watching his every motion, praying for returning reason, while in those three weeks he lived over the ten years of his sin-laden life. Victoria listened, sometimes in tears, and again in keenest pity, while the tongue which had so faithfully guarded the stricken man’s secret was now loosened, and ran on, and on unceasingly, babbling into the ears of the woman he had loved and wronged, all those things which he had so jealously kept from her.
He told of how in the early days of their meeting he had not cared for her, but after a time her loveliness dawned upon him, and grew, and grew, until from a trifling friendship it had developed into a passion which only death could quench. At such times he would clasp Victoria around the neck with almost the light of reason in his eyes, and calling her “mother,” would tell her of the sweet fair English girl who had stolen his heart only to break it. Victoria’s tears fell like rain on the hot purple lips of the sick man, as she listened to his ravings, but not a tear dimmed the brilliancy of the burning eyes fixed upon her’s. He seemed to know that she wept, for he would say: “Don’t cry, mother. You are too young and beautiful to weep, although your hair is white, and you love Roger better than you do me. I have become used to that, but mother,” and here his voice would become shrill and discordant, and his features fierce and repellant, “Roger must not steal everything from me; he must leave my beautiful angel with the pure white wings for me to love. I will kill him else.”
Then, perhaps, for a few moments, the burning eyes would droop only to be raised again, with a fiercer light gleaming in them, while he fought with imaginary demons, all bearing the form of Roger, who wanted to take from him his beautiful angel with the pure white wings, whose earthly name had been Victoria. Then for a time he lived over again that dreadful railroad accident, whereby Roger was supposed to have lost his life. With the cunningness of insanity, he would look up into Victoria’s face and laughingly ask her “if she knew who Roger Willing was, and where he was buried. How I have longed to tell Victoria something,” he would say. “What a mockery her flowers seemed when laid upon the grave of an unknown, while Roger was sleeping—ah, where was he sleeping? If I tell you, you will tell her, and then I shall lose you, for you will go to Roger whom you always loved better than you did me, and who stole my angel, my beautiful angel with the pure white wings, but he has paid for it, paid for it dearly.”
Victoria, who longed to know the real facts relating to Roger’s escape from death, questioned the sick man all that she dared to, but his lips remained sealed until one day, as she was bending over him bathing his face, he caught her hands, and, holding them with a grip of iron, he shouted: “Ah! I know you at last. I have been trying to remember you for centuries. You are the shade of that beautiful bride from whose arms I tore the mangled remains of her husband, while not so much as a bruise was on her lovely face. Ah, ha! You have found me at last. Well, now that you have what are you going to do about it? He received Christian burial. I will take you to his grave, all covered with daisies, and you may find there, most any day, a fair woman—Oh, yes, far lovelier than you, beg pardon—who weeps and mourns for him who lies beneath. She thinks it is her husband. Only I know differently. You will never tell; you can’t, because you are a shade, and shades never return to bother us; but then, if they don’t, how the deuce did you get here? Ah! I see. I have become a shade; that explains it. Oh, of course, very considerate of you to meet me to ask after the welfare of your beloved. Did I not tell you he was well taken care of, while you were given a pauper’s burial? Nobody ever took the pains to hunt you up. Now go away and don’t bother me. I’ve got no more to tell you.” Then, exhausted, he would sink back upon the pillow, gasping for breath.
Perhaps it was his weakness which appealed to Victoria’s womanly heart. Perhaps it was the strong love which even in his most agonizing moments of pain, he never lost for “his angel.” In all those weary weeks he never called for Victoria; he always spoke of her as if she had gone away or was indeed an angel. To him Victoria was his mother, and her touch soothed him when nothing else would, and many times he pleaded with her to intercede with Victoria in his behalf. “She knows I adore her,” he would cry. “Mother, she is angry with me. I cannot bear those reproachful eyes forever fixed upon me. Tell her I did it because I loved her so. Tell her nothing, however bad it might have been, that she could ever do, would have turned my love from her. Ask her to forgive. I know she will; she always had such a tender little heart. Tell her I thought it no sin at first, because it brought her within my arms. My arms which are empty now. Ask her if she remembers the night of the ball, when she told me that she loved me, or was beginning to love me. ’Twas then I realized that heaven I had never expected to reach. Oh, God, that night. Will it ever come back to me?”
Victoria buried her head in the pillow. “My heart is breaking,” she cried, as the doctor lifted her wasted form as if it had been a child. “Doctor, give me something to make me sleep. I have not slept for four days or nights. If I might sleep to never waken more, how happy I should be.”
“Think of your child, Mrs. Willing,” replied the doctor. “Think of all those who are leaning upon you; who would be lost without you. You have proven yourself one of a thousand in this severe trial. Be brave a little while longer. Why did you not tell me of this insomnia? Of course I will give you an opiate, and when you shall awaken, life will have put on an entirely different hue, and there will also be a change in Andrew for better or for worse. See, he sleeps. It will be either death or life. Let us pray to God now, this instant. Which shall it be?”
Victoria, almost distracted by the fiery trial which she was undergoing, looked at the sleeper with eyes of love. Then, raising those eyes to heaven, she cried: “Death! Merciful Father, in Thine infinite pity, Thou who knowest the frailties of the human heart and who chastises only by love, let it be death which shall come to him who holds my heart and will not let it go, for if it be life, what will become of us, who are so weak?”
The doctor raised her from her knees and bore her to a couch. “God moves in a mysterious way,” he said, gently stroking the beating veins in her temples. “He does not always answer our prayers direct. Come, say with me the Lord’s Prayer. It covers everything which we need. Will you say it?”
“Yes,” replied Victoria, her eyes still upon the sleeping man; and with her hands clasped within those of her untiring, faithful friend, she repeated with him the simple yet restful prayer, which has brought peace to so many aching hearts. As the doctor repeated “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven,” Victoria’s voice faltered, and, bowing her head upon the physician’s arm, she cried: “No, no, I cannot say that. It is my will that I wish, not His. How can I say it, when my heart cries all the time for death, oblivion, forgetfulness? God’s will may be to have him live. What, then, must be our future? Ah, no, I cannot, dare not say what my heart rebels against. Think you that I have the strength to live apart from him who draws me by a power I cannot resist? Ah, no, dear friend; the spirit may be ever so willing, but the flesh is woefully weak. There is no safety for either of us but in death.”
For a time the doctor allowed her to indulge in the passionate grief, which shook her frail form as a mighty storm sways a tender sapling. Then, wetting a cloth with a strong æsthetic, he laid it over her face, and presently her sobs ceased and she lay quiet. Removing the cloth, he took her in his arms as he would a tired child, and laid her beside Andrew. “If she awakens, she will remain quiet, knowing that the least move may prove fatal to the invalid,” he said, watching the pale, worn face. “Poor child! Her burden may become greater than she can bear, for I notice a change in Andrew. I think he will live.”
It was hours before a single motion from either disturbed the physician’s reverie. Then Andrew, with a deep sigh, opened his eyes. They encountered the doctor’s. He approached the bed, placing his finger upon his lips to enjoin silence, but Andrew could not have even whispered. Keeping his eyes open was an exertion, and he soon closed them; but in those few seconds the doctor had seen in the questioning eyes the light of returning reason, and with a murmured “thank God,” he set about preparing a cordial against the time when it should be needed, for now he knew that Andrew had passed the crisis, and with good care would live.
All physicians take a certain professional pride in having been instrumental in saving a patient for whom they have labored, expecting nothing but death. So it was with this good doctor. It had seemed a hopeless case from the beginning. A case which held no promise of a reward for his untiring efforts, and so, perhaps, his joy was greater because this man’s life had been given to him in answer to his prayer. For he had prayed that Andrew might live, just as fervently as Victoria prayed that he might die. He foresaw a serious complication of affairs, if Andrew should die. Much more serious than if he lived, especially so for little Mary, upon whose innocent head would descend her father’s sin. When Victoria should awaken refreshed in mind and body, he would present all these things to her in a light which her clear common sense must acknowledge as being the only way out of this almost insurmountable difficulty. A way in which the family name could be saved from disgrace; in which the dying man upstairs (for his days were numbered) could peacefully pass away; in which the little child who had done no wrong could be shielded from the world’s cruel tongue, which stabs unmercifully from the back, whilst exhibiting a smiling face.
All this the kind friend determined should Victoria be made to see. As for himself when his duty should have been done; when there remained no more for him to do, he would again take up the monotonous routine of a country physician’s life; not without a scar upon his heart, however. These few weeks of close companionship with a woman superior in all things to any he had ever known, had been dangerous in the extreme, and he was conscious of it. He was a confirmed bachelor of fifty years. His boast among his own sex was, that he had never been in love, nor had he ever seen the woman who could tempt him to change his happy state, for what he was sure would be a most unhappy one. He had been the Willing’s family physician for eighteen years. He had been present at every death, at every birth, within that time. He had been a trusted and tried friend of the family outside his professional capacity. He had looked upon Victoria almost as a father might have done, but he found as the days went by, that he had more than a father’s love for the sad, sweet-faced woman, who bore her burdens so uncomplainingly, and who was living up to her faith so far as the light had been shown her.
Unlike most professional men the doctor was a thorough Christian. He carried his faith into his work, not obtrusively; no person could say that of him. Yet when called to a patient who had never employed him before, that patient knew ere the doctor left the room that he was a servant of the Lord. So when he saw that Victoria was becoming every day more dear to him, he did not flee from her presence as a weaker man might have done. He simply stated the case to his Heavenly Father, as a child confesses a fault to an earthly parent, and trusting in the Divine guidance he went about his duties as before, knowing full well that without him the frail bark would founder. That here was he needed, and here he must remain, guiding the rudder until all danger should be passed.
Victoria saw nothing of all this. To her this man was only their family physician in whom she had been obliged to confide. A man deserving of her confidence, and one who would not abuse it. Knowing his aversion to all women she would not have believed her own ears if he had knelt before her and poured out all that was in his heart. She would have said: “I have at last gone mad.”
There were times when Victoria nearly succumbed under the weight of her manifold duties. Then it was that the doctor was obliged to put a strong curb upon himself. He longed to take her in his arms tenderly, soothingly, and stroke the aching brow until he should bring rest to her whom he loved, but he dared not, for he knew she would not understand such love as he felt for her; that it would only frighten her. To him this was the sweetest time in all his life, and he knew that there was no sin in such love as he bore Victoria. He did not desire her for himself. True, if she had been free, he would have striven desperately to win her, but she was not and never would be while he lived, and he did not wish it otherwise. He longed for her happiness; to see her gay and smiling, as he had once known her in her early married life with Roger. She had passed through so many fiery trials that they had left their imprint on her face, and she must bear their marks through life, but he would shield her from all further care so far as it lay in his power. The cruel darts of malicious tongues should never strike her, if he could prevent it.
Such had been his thoughts as he sat beside the couch waiting for the crisis which meant so much to all three of them. Now the tide had turned. Andrew would live, and he must, as the only friend who knew his secret, counsel and advise him. However painful, it was a duty from which he must not shrink, and for Victoria’s sake he would take upon himself the secret of “The House of Five Gables,” and keep it from the curious, gaping world.
A second time Andrew opened his eyes and gazed questioningly at the doctor. Then, feebly turning his head he saw Victoria’s white, wan face on the pillow beside him. When he looked again toward the doctor there was a smile of perfect peace upon his face. His lips moved. The doctor bent to catch the words which came feebly, hesitatingly.
“She knows all, and yet she has not left me. How great is woman’s forebearance. I have been ill?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, very ill, Andrew, and unless you keep very quiet and husband what strength you have remaining, you cannot recover. Take this cordial and compose yourself for another sleep. Then when you waken, I will answer all the questions you choose to ask.”
“Just one more question, doctor. How is my brother?”
“There is no change nor will there ever be. He will remain in this state until he dies, which is only a question of time. His days are numbered.”
Andrew turned his eyes again upon Victoria, and tried to raise his hand, but it fell helpless upon the coverlet. He looked wistfully at the doctor. “I am so weak,” he whispered. “Take her hand and put it within mine. I want to touch her; to know that she is flesh and blood. She looks so pale, and wan; so like death, and it has been all for me; all for me.”
The doctor did as Andrew desired, and with a sigh of content, the invalid closed his eyes with Victoria’s hand clasped in his own.
An hour later Victoria awoke. Adam was sitting beside the bed fanning Andrew, who lay sleeping with a faint smile on his face, and with Victoria’s hand still within his. She gently drew it away and rose from the couch. Something in Andrew’s appearance told her that he had awakened in his right mind. The soft, rosy flush on his cheeks, which had long been so colorless, bespoke returning life. Although she had prayed that he might die, a rush of gladness that God had not seen fit to answer her prayer filled her heart. After all, how could she bear to have him put away from her sight forever, and too, there was Mary, who loved her father so passionately, that if he died it might seriously affect the child, who hung about the door all day, refusing to be enticed out to play, and eating scarcely enough to keep her alive. Once she had been admitted to the sick room, but her violent sobs at seeing her father’s swollen lips and colorless face, disturbed the sick man, and she was banished, but she knew that her father was still there, and nothing could induce her to leave the door, where Victoria found her as she went out. She took the child in her arms and carried her into the study where the doctor lay sleeping. “Papa will live, my darling,” she sobbed, burying her face in the clustering curls. “Papa will live. To-morrow you shall see him, and tell him how happy you are that he again knows you.”
The doctor arose as he heard Victoria’s voice and came to her. She looked up with a smile more cheerful than any he had seen on her face for many a day. “You know that he will live?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Willing, he awakened while you slept. He asked for his brother, and then he wanted your hand in his, when he fell into a life-giving sleep, which will do him more good than all my medicines. Good nursing and strengthening food is all he requires from this on. I think I may safely return home to-night. I will come early in the morning to see how he is progressing.”
“Ah! do not leave me,” she said, clasping his arm. “What shall I do without your ever ready hand to assist me? Oh, my friend, you will never know what a comfort you have been to me in this my sorrow. No words can express to you what is in my heart. But for your thoughtful care and Christian example, I must have died. God bless and keep you.”
The physician bowed his head. Such sweet praise from the lips of the woman who was so dear to him, was balm to the scarred heart beating now so furiously. He raised her hand to his lips. “My dear Mrs. Willing,” he said, as calmly as if she were a perfect stranger, and he a man of stone. No sign of tumult within him showed upon his tranquil face. “My dear Mrs. Willing, all that I have done any compassionate man would also do. I deserve no thanks for doing my duty. I could not have saved that frail life if God had not willed it so. To Him belongs the praise.” He took Mary in his arms, and kissed her many times. It was a blessed relief to be able to ease his aching heart on the face of this innocent child. Her child.
“You hug almost as hard as papa,” she said, patting his cheeks caressingly. “Do you love me a heap?”
“Yes, heaps and heaps,” laughed the doctor. “What will you take for one of these curls. I would like to take it away with me and wear it next my heart.”
“Couldn’t spare the weentiest bit of a one,” she answered, shaking her head sagely. “My papa owns all of them. He says every hair on my head is more precious to him than all his gold. When he gets well enough to talk to me, I’ll ask him if you may have one. I could not let you have it else, but I’ll give you all the hair on Flora McFlimsey’s head. It’s a heap prettier than mine, and stays put a heap longer. I haven’t any bald-headed children. I reckon I’d like one for a change.”
The doctor laughed. “I should feel highly honored to receive Miss Flora’s hair, and you are very generous to offer it, but it is yours I wish. If I can’t have it I don’t want any.”
“Oh!” said Mary, meditatively, as she laid her head upon his breast, and played with the buttons on his coat, “that’s it, is it? I reckon you’ll have to go without. Why don’t you buy a little girl with hair just like mine? Then you’d have heaps of curls instead of a teeny one.”
“Ah, but the trouble is, there are no little girls to buy.”
Mary’s mouth made a round O, while she looked at the doctor and then at Victoria, who was amusedly listening. “I—I am afraid you don’t always speak the truth,” she said, after a pause, “and mamma says that’s extremely naughty. You carried a baby to Myrtle Bradley’s house the other day, and one to Dorothy Lane’s. Why didn’t you keep one for yourself?”
“But they were both boys, Mary, and boys, you know, don’t have such nice hair as girls.”
“Oh!” again said Mary. Then, after a pause, she drew the doctor’s ear close to her rosebud mouth and whispered confidentially: “Don’t let mamma hear, but do you know, every night when I go to bed, I thank God that you did not bring a boy to mamma instead of me. I should not like to have been born a boy.”
The doctor roared, and looked at Victoria, who had heard the loud whisper, but his face quickly sobered as he saw her agitation.
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” she quoted. “Oh! God, I too, thank thee for this precious gift, which was not born a boy, who might have lived to curse the author of his being.” She rose hurriedly and left the room, while the doctor gazed after her with a deep sorrow in his eyes.