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.