“Noo goold grows on trees anywheer’s, tha’ fule, but Duncausby Head ha’ buried treasures, an I know et. Ha’ ye neer heerd tell o’ John de Groot, a man wi’ a nasty temper, wha’ could na’ live peaceably wi’ his seven brothers, so he built a house wi’ eight sides till it; every side wi’ its own dure, so tha’ eight brothers could na’ quarrel one wi’ tha’ ither?”
“A tale o’ tha’ fairies,” exclaimed the listener incredulously.
“It be no idle tale I say. Coom wie me an’ I show it thee. I ha’ been in it mony a time. It be tha’ ferryhouse wheer thee lands fra’ t’ Orkney Isles, i’ Pentland Firth. Theer be gude fishin’ for all who may wish, an’ I like fishin’ better nor sailin’, so I be gooin’ bock soon, an’ thee be welcome ti’ coom along wi’ me. Nae sickness ever cooms theer. We ha’ nae docther i’ tha’ place.”
Victoria listened at first languidly to the two men’s conversation, and then with interest. Why would not Duncausby Head be a safe retreat for her, and healthgiving to Roger. She resolved to question this sailor at the first opportunity. She did so, and his answers were so satisfactory that she decided to push right on to Duncausby Head, and there abide. Upon arriving at Aberdeen she staid long enough to get a good Scotch woman, and traveling leisurely she at last reached the place where we now find her, five years after leaving America.
Little Dora was now eight years old, and had grown stout and robust, with a Scotch color in her cheeks which would have delighted her grandfather could he have seen it. But for this child Victoria must have gone mad. Her sweet coaxing ways kept green the heart-starving for those it so dearly loved in old Virginia. There were days when the winds and tempests raged about the little point; when it was not safe for man or beast to venture out. On such days when Victoria was housed with Roger, whose health was slowly failing, and who was pevish and sometimes ugly in consequence, the presence of the sweet child with her wise babblings, was like a ray of brightest sunshine to the heart-sick woman, and she lavished all the pent-up love which had waited so long upon Dora, who returned Victoria’s caresses a thousand fold.
As Roger grew weaker he became more exacting. He knew Victoria’s voice and touch from any other, and if she left him for even a moment, he would howl and beat the air with his fists until she again appeared, and laid her hands upon him. She had sent for a physician, who told her that no change of climate would be beneficial to the invalid. He was as well off in one place as another. It was only a question of time.
“Only a question of time.” Those had been Dr. Harrison’s words five years ago; still Roger was living, and how long, perhaps another five years. Victoria can hardly be blamed for the thoughts which would come to her. She did not wish for Roger’s death, but she wondered how long she could endure this, to her, living death. Every day the question occurred to her, and every night when she retired she had a fear that when the morning should dawn, it would find her insane. She felt little Dora to be her guardian angel, and many a time after a hard battle with Roger—who showed wonderful strength for one so weak—she would take the child in her arms and sob her heart out on the tender little breast. Ah, yes! She was being punished for the guilty thoughts which once had possessed her for Andrew’s sake.
The mail came very uncertain to Duncausby Head. Sometimes for weeks Victoria did not hear from home, but she did not rebel at that. If any of her dear ones died she could not reach them in time to once more gaze upon their faces. If they were ill she did not wish to know of it. Better death and the knowledge of it, than illness with uncertainty, but every letter brought nothing but good news. All were in the best of health. Mary was a big girl now, and printed her letters no more. She wrote with a bold, free hand, which told Victoria of that other hand which had been her tutor. Nothing went on at home of the least moment but that was told in graphic language to Victoria, who sometimes closed her eyes and imagined herself back at “the Five Gables,” seated beside the lake, with Andrew by her side, and Mary at her feet.
To waken from that dream so real; to waken with Roger’s wild cries ringing in her ears, as he struggled with Adam in mad frenzy over the bug bugging in his head; this was her trial which sometimes she bore with resignation, and again with bitter complainings to God, asking upon her knees if her punishment was to endure forever.
Victoria had changed, and who could wonder that she had. She was not quite forty in years, but she felt aged to twice that number, because of the many trials through which she had passed. Time had dealt lightly with her beautiful hair. The same sunny sheen was upon it as in her younger days, but the sweet laughing mouth had grown serious, while little lines had formed around the full lips, as if they had often been drawn with pain and suffering. But the eyes told of what Victoria had endured more than all else about the face. A stranger, meeting her as she was walking on the sands, would know at a glance that some great grief had come to this woman. Some terrible agony had she passed through which had left its imprint in the sorrowful eyes with a nameless something in their depths hard to define but touching in the extreme.