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.
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.