The house of five gables

by Mary Johnson Holmes

Victoria was glad. The kindly compassionate face of her uncle would be most strengthening to her fast-failing courage. His wise counsel a safe prop on which to lean. How she longed this moment for a sight of him. Ah, she wished the letter had not come, but that he had taken her by surprise.

The next day James Vale arrived, and Victoria had need of his strengthening arm; his calm quiet voice; his never-failing wise judgment, for a grim messenger had arrived before him, and had summoned Roger to that land, where once more he should see, and the poor head should again be made clear. He had retired apparently in no worse health than usual, and Adam had watched beside him till he fell asleep. In the morning when Adam awoke, surprised at not having been disturbed through the night, as usual; he arose from his couch and approached the bed. Roger lay with a sweet peaceful smile on his face, at rest at last. Something in the quiet form struck a chill to Adam’s heart, and placing his hand upon Roger’s forehead, he found it quite cold. He had gone away forever.

When Victoria was told no gladness mingled with her grief; only a thankfulness that at last the poor clouded brain was at rest. She did not sorrow for him, he was infinitely better off, but she sorrowed for the Roger of by-gone days, and for herself she wept. She went and stood beside the silent form; she gazed at the quiet face which seemed to her to take on the youthful look when first she had known him, and tears for her young husband, for her first love, flowed unrestrainedly. The past twenty years seemed but a dream. She was once more a youthful bride, and Roger, her beloved, was again all in all to her. Raining kisses on his peaceful face, she whispered words of love into his ears, closed forever, and when James Vale arrived, it was to find Victoria beside the bier of Roger, and talking to him as if he could hear and understand. The brave woman who had suffered her trials for so many years with such rare endurance, had at last succumbed.

Roger had been laid away for quite three weeks ere Victoria regained her reason. At times the angel of death hovered very near, and James Vale thought he could even hear the flutter of his wings, but to Victoria was yet reserved, much of joy, and much of sorrow. The time had not come for her to depart. When she had become convalescent, then, and not till then, did James Vale tell her of another death, her mother’s. It had come suddenly—a paralytic stroke. She died as she had lived, unforgiving, and little Dora was heir to what was left, which had proved but little after all had been settled.

Victoria wept for the mother who had been a loving, indulgent parent until her child had crossed her will, and who had proved so unforgiving to the end. The tears were more for the parent of her childhood. How else could she mourn.

James Vale had written to America of Roger’s death. In those days news traveled slowly, and it was fully six weeks after Victoria’s illness, that one day, with Dora as companion, she went to visit Roger’s grave. A rustic bench had been fashioned by one of the villagers, and presented to Victoria, whose sorrow was respected by every rough man in the village. She seated herself, and drew Dora to her side. The quietness of the place soothed her, and her thoughts turned to the dear old home far, far away. What was Mary doing at this moment, and Andrew, where was he? Ah, if she only had wings to fly, how quickly would she traverse the distance, and alight at the door of her home—the home where all her great sorrows had been born, and where most exquisite joys had been hers. Hark! She thought she heard her name breathed softly, tenderly. Dora had heard it too, and had started from Victoria’s encircling arm.

“Cousin Victoria,” she whispered, “look there, the other side of cousin Roger’s grave!”

Before Victoria raised her eyes she knew what she was about to behold. A delicious tremor shook her frame. She felt as if her heart was being drawn from her body. She lifted her trembling eyelids, and a cry burst from her lips. Andrew, holding Mary by the hand, stood beside Roger’s grave. His eyes were fastened upon her. His heart spoke through his eyes. It said: “Come to me!” One hand he held outstretched.

Victoria arose. She placed her hands upon her eyes, then withdrew them. The vision was still there. She stepped hesitatingly forward, her eyes fixed upon Andrew; then, her form bending like a reed, swayed to and fro, and Andrew, unloosing Mary’s clasp, sprang forward and caught the fainting form of her who never more should leave him, in his arms.

FINIS.