Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

No. 4. COLUMBIAN SERIES. Sept. 27, 1892.

PRICE 50 CENTS.

The House

—OF—

Five Gables.

BY

MARY JOHNSON HOLMES.

NEW YORK:

HURST & COMPANY.

134 GRAND STREET.

1892.

Issued Quarterly.—Entered at New York Post Office as second class matter.

PRICE $2.00 PER ANNUM.

The House
—OF—
Five Gables.

BY

MARY JOHNSON HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF

“ASHES,” “SINS OF THE FATHERS,” “A FAIR PURITAN,” ETC.

NEW YORK:

HURST AND COMPANY,

PUBLISHERS,

1892.

COPYRIGHT, 1892,

BY

MARY JOHNSON HOLMES.

THE ARGYLE PRESS, Book Manufacturers,

265–267 Cherry St., N. Y.

THE HOUSE OF FIVE GABLES.

BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

Many years ago there stood on a high bluff over-looking the island which is now the site of a portion of Wheeling, West Virginia, a house known far and near as the house of five gables. It was built of sand-stone and brick; the gables were of wood; it was not a thing of beauty, and a beholder seeing it for the first time, was sure to pause and exclaim at its rare ugliness, which enchained the eye; and its quaint irregular shape appealed in a way to one’s feelings, much as a crippled, mishapen being might have done. It had not always been thus. It began life as a modest story-and-a-half cottage, and for several years could only boast of two gables, but with a change of owners there came a change of architecture also, until if old Sir Roger Willing, the original builder, could have risen from his grave he would have found it difficult to have discovered a foot of his own handiwork.

Old Sir Roger’s great-grandfather was one of the hundred settlers sent from England by Sir Thomas Gates in the year 1607, and settled in Jamestown; and rumor whispered that it was he who bought twenty African negroes from a Dutch man-of-war, and so introduced negro slavery into Virginia in the year 1619.

Sir Roger himself was not long behind Governor Spotswood in crossing the Blue Ridge, and forming a home in what, after more than a century, became West Virginia.

There had always been a Roger Willing from that time until now. An elder son, who kept the old ancestral home, adding to it odd corners as the fancy took him, and dying bequeathed it to another Roger, with the solemn injunction never to sell or part with it come what might. There had been some good Rogers, and there had been some very, very bad ones. Strange tales were wont to be whispered of the goings on inside the old gray walls under the reign of “Jolly Prince Roger,” a grandson of old Roger the fourth. That was in 1763, when Benjamin Harrison was Governor, and when Wheeling was known as Fort Henry. Young “Prince Roger” had just come into his kingdom as it were, meaning the old stone house now boasting three gables and numberless added corners; many acres of tobacco, and a prolific bank account. Roger’s father had been a man with one idea; to make money. The idea how to spend it he had never cultivated, therefore Roger upon coming into possession of what his father had so carefully hoarded, speedily set to work to make ducks and drakes of it, and he gathered about him plenty of profligate assistants, who helped him turn night into day, and day into night, until their wild orgies became the talk for miles around.

A beautiful slave girl was installed housekeeper, and she ruled with a high hand. She ordered a new wing to be added to the old house, and another gable. Stained glass, a great rarity in those days, was brought from foreign parts, and fitted as windows in the new gable. Costly carpets, and tapestries of foreign make covered the floors and walls. Rare treasures costing fabulous prices, were scattered lavishly about the rooms; unique chandeliers of brass fishes filled with sperm oil, the light issuing from the fishes’ mouths, were wonders to the class of visitors who worshipped at Bella’s shrine. Here she reigned queen for ten years, until one morning, Roger woke up to find himself at the end of his resources. All his ready money squandered. The old house mortgaged, and a fair prospect of being without a place to lay his head ere many months should pass. He was dazed, bewildered, as the truth became a certainty, and he wandered over the fair lands which any day might be snatched from him, bemoaning his fate, and cursing it as well. His companions in prosperity had all fled at the first hint of adversity, as fair weather friends have a habit of doing, and he had no one to advise him in his hour of trouble.

The man to whom the property was mortgaged called occasionally, “to gloat”—as Roger said—“over the prospect of in time possessing the fair estate.”

“But by heavens! he never shall be master here. Never! Not if I have to sell my soul to the devil to get the money,” was Roger’s cry. He went to Bella for suggestions as to the best course to pursue, but she merely laughed at him.

“Do as I do,” she told him. “Don’t bother your head over nothing. It don’t pay. It only makes you wrinkled and old, years before your time. Sell the old rattletrap. It ain’t mortgaged for near what its worth, and the money you have left over will keep us for a few years anyhow.”

“I can’t sell it,” Roger answered. “More’s the pity. I’m bound by word to the dead.”

“Bound by your fiddlesticks!” laughed Bella scornfully. “What will the dead ever know or care about it; you are a soft head; ha, ha, ha!”

Roger went out leaving Bella still laughing. He was disgusted, weary. Yes, almost tired of life, and he walked around the grounds to a little lake which he had made for Bella’s pleasure. The water was deep enough to drown one, if one chose to just lie down without a struggle, and it would be an easy way to end it all; but something whispered that such a mode of escape would be cowardly, and with all his faults, the one of cowardice had never been laid to Roger Willing.

For days his mind continued in a state bordering on lunacy. Then like a ray of sunlight, there came to him a letter from across the seas. It was from a great uncle, his grandfather’s brother, who had not taken kindly to American soil, and had gone to the land of his ancestors, there to build up a colossal fortune. He had only one heir, a son, who dying left a daughter, Mary Willing. This child had now arrived at a marrying age. There was no one good enough for her in all England. Many letters had travelled between Roger’s father and Mary’s. They had had it in their minds to unite the English sovereign with the American dollar; but Mary was at that time too young, and Roger’s father had died ere he could express his desires to his son. Now, Grandpa Willing being Mary’s guardian, had thought it about time to broach the subject to his brother’s grandson. If he was heart free would he come over to old England, and form Mary’s acquaintance? She had sixty thousand pounds in her own right, and when her old grandfather died, her dot would be considerably increased.

Roger stared at the letter, and could hardly realize his own good fortune. Going to England in those days could not be called a pleasure trip. It meant many weeks of rough tossing on angry billows. Of a possible loss of life, but Roger gave not one thought to the dangers or privations attendant to his journey. He looked forward to the golden goal at the end, and cared not for what came between. He went to the richest man in Fort Henry and showed him the letter, asking him if he would advance a thousand dollars on a second mortgage, for he felt confident of winning his cousin’s affections. The man consented, and Roger made ready for his journey in great glee. To Bella he said, “that if he wanted to save his home he must go abroad,” which was true enough.

“Give me and my child our freedom papers,” cried Bella, excitedly. “You always said you would, but you’ve put it off as you do everything, and if you are lost at sea, and never come back, we shall be sold to the Lord knows who.”

“All right, honey, I’ll tend to it sure before I go,” replied Roger, carelessly, and as a matter of course he forgot all about it, the time came, and he sailed away with Bella’s loud wailing ringing in his ears.

He reached England in safety, and found his cousin all that her grandfather had pictured her; bright, rosy-cheeked, and if she lacked beauty, still she was good to look upon, and the golden sovereigns at her command, gave a wonderful luster to her otherwise commonplace appearance.

Roger’s wooing was short, but most satisfactory to all concerned. Mary adored her handsome cousin. He was so very different from any young man she had ever known. His rather free manners attracted and repelled her at the same time; but she fell more deeply in love every day, so that Roger’s proposal was hardly to be called one, for he just said: “Mary, when shall we be married?” While she answered, meekly: “Whenever you please, Roger.”

“The sooner the better then,” was his reply. “It’s a great nuisance this getting married. It should be abolished.”

Grandpa Willing was more than satisfied with Roger’s account of his possessions. He made him describe over and over the old house with its many rooms and queer angles. Roger told of the goodly bank account which his father left, also of the vast fields of tobacco, but he forgot to mention the heavy mortgage resting upon the home; and the old man rubbed his hands gleefully at the wedding which he had brought about so skillfully.

It is not necessary to linger over the brief betrothal, or the happy bridal, for at least to one of the participants, the wedding morning was the happiest of her hitherto uneventful life, and just before she was led by a bevy of laughing bridesmaids to meet the bridegroom, she devoutly knelt in the privacy of her chamber, and thanked God for the treasure about to become hers; for the gift of an honest man’s love, and she asked for a divine blessing to rest on her beloved from that time forth.

As for Roger, he drew on his gloves with an air of ennui, and confidentially remarked to his mirror, that if it were not for those golden sovereigns beckoning him on, he would flunk at the last moment, for the very thought of marriage was distasteful to him; and at the altar, as the clergyman asked in solemn tones, “Wilt thou have this woman to be thy lawful wedded wife?” it was not Mary whom he saw standing by his side, but one of duskier hue, who raised her appealing eyes to his and asked that justice be done her and hers. He heard again that despairing cry which had been the last sound to fall upon his ears as he had driven from his home, and it is no wonder that he cast a wild glance behind him, ere his trembling lips whispered faintly, “I do.” But no voice denouncing him interrupted the ceremony, which bound a trusting, God-fearing woman, to an unscrupulous atheist, and Roger drew a deep breath of relief as he found himself outside the church, away from the nodding, gaping crowd, who to his excited fancy all seemed to point jeeringly at him; and although it was a bitter cold day, great drops of moisture stood on his face, which Mary in true wifely fashion brushed away with her dainty cobweb handkerchief; thereby taking upon herself a bondage which was never broken, until death claimed her husband.

Roger’s true character was soon revealed to Mary. The honeymoon had hardly waned ere her idol lay shattered at her feet. He had decided to do Paris, and one or two gambling places before he started for America, and Mary followed where ere her lord and master led. She spent one delightful week in Paris, driving, walking, dining with Roger, and then, the heavenly blue of her sky was suddenly overcast by a dark threatening cloud which never entirely lifted through all her life.

She remembered that day so well in after years. She had been more gay than usual, singing ridiculous little nursery songs all to herself, as she dressed in evening costume, so as to be ready the moment Roger came in. Roger did not like to be kept waiting “dear fellow,” and they were going to the opera of which Mary was passionately fond. She donned a pretty blue silk flounced to the waist, each flounce edged with priceless lace. Roger had admired it above all her other dresses, so of course none other must be worn. After dressing she sat down to await his coming, and she waited long. The moments grew into hours, and still he did not come. Supper time came and passed. The hour on which they should have been starting for the opera was struck off saucily, by the little clock on the mantle, yet he was absent, and Mary walked the floor, wringing her hands in wild despair, imagining all sorts of horrors. Now she saw his dear form torn and bleeding, being pulled from beneath the feet of prancing steeds; again, she was viewing his lifeless body as it was tenderly placed at her feet by strangers, and it was with a cry of almost gladness, that just as the dawn was breaking she heard muffled voices at the door. “Thank God! the uncertainty was over. Better anything than this awful suspense which was driving her mad.” She thought she heard a laugh. “Ah! then he was not dead. No person, however heartless, could laugh if death were near them.” She tremblingly slid back the bolt.

“Stand him up against the door,” she heard a voice in French say.

“What are you talking about?” another voice answered. “He can’t stand. He’s too far gone for that.”

Mary groaned, and dreading what her eyes might behold, she opened the door just as Roger called feebly: “Shay, you fel—felis, don’ go off an’ leave a fel like this; hic, I’m sick, awful sick, hic, so I am.”

Mary saw two men going down the dimly-lighted hall, and realizing her inability to lift or drag the burly form of her husband inside, she called, indignantly: “Come back and assist me. Are you devoid of all human feeling, that you desert a fellow-being in distress?”

The men turned at her call, and she saw that one was the night porter, while the other a stranger, was in full evening dress. He lifted his hat respectfully, and stooped over Roger, shaking him vigorously.

“Arouse yourself,” he said in French.

“Speak United States,” muttered Roger, “I don’t unstan’ beastly la’guage. United States only la’guage in whole world, whole world, do you hear? An’ I’ll fight er’body who says taint.”

Both men laughed, while Mary wrung her hands, crying, “Oh, what has happened him?” Then remembering that perhaps neither of these men could understand English, she turned to the porter and said in French: “Tell me what has happened to Monsieur Willing. Has he become suddenly insane?”

The porter looked at the stranger and smiled. “He knows,” he answered.

Mary turned inquiringly to the stranger, who again bowed profoundly. “Monsieur is not ill, Madame. Only a little indisposed. He has been spending the night among a jolly lot of fellows. He lost rather heavily at cards, and naturally took a few glasses too much. He will be all right by morning.”

“A few glasses too much,” echoed Mary, starting back. “Do you mean to infer that he is drunk?”

The stranger bowed his head, saying softly: “That word might be applied to his condition outside polite society. We seldom use so harsh an appelation.”

“Oh!” said Mary, looking with disgust at the form at her feet, “thank you for being so considerate of my feelings. It seems I have much to learn in regard to polite French society. We English call things by their proper names. Take him inside and then go.”

When Mary was left alone with her husband who had fallen into a drunken slumber, she sat and gazed at him long and earnestly. Her thoughts were far from being pleasant ones. “So this is the end of my happy marriage which I foolishly thought could never be anything but happy. A sweet dream rudely broken in one short week. What have I done that I should be so harshly punished? Tenderly cherished by a fond, adoring father, and taught by him to abhor vice in any form; and after his death surrounded by the protecting love of my dear grandfather, how can I cope with this horror which has so suddenly been thrust upon me. Can I go to grandfather with my trouble? Ah, no. He is old, and the knowledge of my unhappiness might send him to his grave. I must adopt some severe plan by which to cure my husband of this evil which will so soon wreck his life, and my own, if he continues. Yes, that is the better plan, but how shall I begin? Is not my woman’s wit equal to this emergency? It should be.”

She sat for some few moments in deep thought. Then she arose with an air of determination, saying: “The remedy is severe, but if it only effects a cure I can rejoice.”

She bent over the sleeping man and pinched him several times, calling him by name. He slept on. The only difference being that he snored more musically than before. Mary smiled. “He will never know,” she whispered. Then stepping to his dressing room, she brought forth his shaving materials. She had often watched him shave, and thought it an easy matter to handle a razor. She did not think so now when, after lathering well his head, she attempted to remove the hair without cutting the scalp. She stopped in despair after three unsuccessful attempts. Then with renewed energy which challenged defeat, she began again, and in a short time, though it could not be called a work of art, Roger’s head was shorn of its curly black locks, and Mary viewed her work with satisfaction. She called a servant and despatched him for a pound of mustard, and when she received it she was not long in making several plasters, and applying them to various parts of Roger’s body where their superior qualities would be appreciated the most. Then she sat down to await the result. She had not changed her pretty dress. It was nearly ruined, but she did not give a thought to that. She wanted Roger to see her still in evening dress.

Presently a groan followed by another still louder told that her patient was awakening. “Water, water,” he moaned, “for God’s sake give me water! I’m burning to death. Am I in hell? Mary, Mary, where are you? Where am I? What has happened me?”

Mary knelt by his side. “Oh Roger! dear Roger, how thankful I am to hear you speak once more. You have been very, very ill.”

“Then I am on earth,” he said feebly, trying to raise his head from the pillow so as to gaze fully upon the familiar objects scattered about. “I thought I’d got ’em again, or something. Suffering Job, what am I in, a bed of fire? Talk of torments. There is no worse torment than this.”

He uttered another cry which rang through the room.

Mary turned her face to hide her smiles, and said sweetly: “They are only mustard plasters dear husband. Don’t revile them. They have saved your life. They are grandfather’s great cure all’s for every ill and——”

“Damn grandfather and his plasters!” broke in Roger, savagely grinding his teeth. “Take ’em off. Do you hear me? Take ’em off.”

Mary was willing to obey, as by this time a good blister from each one was sure to have matured, but she moderately took her time. “Not until you beg my pardon for swearing at grandfather. You have good cause to bless him, for if it had not been for his remedy you would surely have died.”

“Father Isaac and all the patriarchs! will you stop your silly twaddle, and remove these rags, or by heaven! when they do come off I’ll clap ’em on to you.”

Mary knew that she was safe, for on both palms was a generous supply of mustard.

“Say you are sorry for what you said, then I will.”

“I won’t, not if I die for it. I’ll ring for a servant.” He leaped from the couch only to fall back with a groan. More mustard on the soles of his feet. “Do you want to kill me?” he yelled.

“Far from it Roger, darling. I only want to make you well.”

“Thank you,” he sneered, “you are succeeding admirably. Oh, Mary, Mary, for the love of heaven, will you take them off?”

Mary looked at him.

“I’m sorry, oh yes, I’m sorry I said that awful word. I’m so sorry, that if I had your grandfather here I’d make him eat the whole business.”

Mary smiled, and slowly undid the bandages from his feet. “You have said you are sorry, dear. That is sufficient without emphasizing it. I know how you feel. Grandfather is always irritable after using them.”

Roger muttered something which sounded suspiciously like a repetition of his fond speech on grandfather, but Mary wisely closed her ears, and as the last bandage was removed, Roger gave a huge sigh of relief, and said: “Now, tell me the meaning of this idiotic performance, and why you have tortured me with that old man’s infernal remedy; but hold on, there’s one on my head yet, you didn’t take off.”

“Oh no, dear, I didn’t put any on your head.”

“Much obliged for your thoughtfulness. Something is the matter, though. It feels as if it had been scalped.”

“I only shaved it, dear Roger. That’s all.”

“That’s all!” he gasped. “By the jumping jupiter! ain’t that enough? What in Tophet did I marry you for, I wonder?”

“Because you loved me.”

“That’s all bosh. I never cared a rap for you.” He laughed harshly, enjoying the look of pain and fear upon her face.

“Then you did not even love me when you were courting me?”

“Not a picaune. I’ve got a yellow girl home I care more for than I do for you. How do you like that?”

Mary buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. Her idol’s coarse, brutal character stood fully revealed. The thin veneer was brushed like a cobweb from the rotten porous wood, exposing the architect’s poor carpentering.

“I will go home to my grandfather,” she sobbed.

“All right, go. You’ve got my full consent, but remember, you can’t take a cent of your sixty thousand pounds along. That became mine when you did, and I mean to hold on to it.”

CHAPTER II.

Mary spent many weary hours trying to settle in her own mind what course to pursue, whilst Roger was confined to his bed, cursing the blisters which prevented him from walking, cursing Mary, her grandfather, and all her ancestors in the same breath. She felt nothing but disgust toward the man whom she had promised to love, honor and obey. What was there in such a man to honor? He had told her in horrible language that the first use which he should make of his feet would be to go on a protracted spree, and she would see no more of him for a month. He added with an oath “that he knew better than to come back for a second dose of mustard.”

She had written several letters to her grandfather, asking his advice as to what she had better do, but as yet she had received no reply. By his wise decision she would abide, feeling sure that he would point out the right way. She had not changed in her general bearing toward Roger. She waited on his every whim with wifely solicitude, but without the endearing words or loving caresses, which she would have bestowed one week ago. He was still her husband, and would remain so until death claimed either. She could not forget that. She owed him a certain amount of obedience, further than that he could not force her to do his will.

“Why don’t you talk once in a while, or tell me a good story?” he said to her one day. “You are like a death’s head at a feast, and about as cheerful as one would be, I should judge.”

“I have nothing to talk about,” she answered, wearily.

“Then invent something. If Bella were only here now, she’d make things lively for me. Not a dull hour in the day. She can dance, she can sing, she can do anything.”

Mary compressed her lips for a moment, and then said calmly:

“Then you intend to keep that slave girl?”

“Ain’t at all likely that I shall part with her, Mrs. Willing. She is too valuable. She’s only twenty-six. Look at the family she’s likely to raise. Every pickaninny will be worth a hundred to five. Part with Bella? Well, I reckon not.”

Mary shuddered. To hear her husband talk so coldbloodedly of traffic in human souls, made her heart sick. Was he devoid of all human feeling? She would try him and see.

“How much money would you want for all your slaves, if you were going to sell them?” she asked quietly.

“Oh about five thousand, I rec’on. I haven’t many now. I sold a good many last Spring, but I’ll buy a good lot more when I go back.”

She knelt by his chair, and clasped his arm with her hands, looking pleadingly up into his face. “Roger, I have never asked a favor of you since our marriage. You know how I abhor slavery. I cannot understand it, and never shall. I cannot imagine one human being selling others as if they were cattle without soul or feeling. Let me buy them of you, Roger. I will free them, and hire them to work on your plantation. Then, parents would not be torn away from their children, as you say is often the case now, and God would bless us for doing right in his eyes.”

Roger burst into a loud guffaw. “That’s rich. By thunder! if it ain’t. You would take my money to purchase my slaves, then liberate them. What do I make by the deal?”

“But I am speaking of my money, Roger. Surely I have a right to do as I please with my own.”

“With mine own,” mimicked Roger. “And pray tell me what is your own? Look at your marriage contract, madam, and see what that tells you. Everything belonging you became mine when I married you. Do you think I would have married you else? You can’t touch a farthing of it without my consent.”

“And do you mean to say that you would refuse to give me a paltry thousand pounds of my own money to do as I please with it?”

“You have understood my meaning fully, my lady. Not a sixpence do you get out of me for the purpose of liberating my slaves. I’d give you any amount you wanted for any other purpose.”

Mary rose in indignation, and raised her hand warningly. “Then beware, Roger Willing, of what is coming. I saw it as I knelt beside you, I see it now. God will send a terrible calamity upon you.” She bent forward as if she saw some awful vision before her, and Roger watched her, fascinated. “Be warned in time, miserable man, and repent ere God’s wrath overtakes you.”

Roger placed his hands before his eyes, and tried in vain to steady his voice as he shouted: “Cease your idle croaking, woman; you are enough to drive one mad. Have you not seen and heard of the Willing temper which stops at nothing when once aroused? Shall I give you a specimen of it now; now, I say?” His voice rose almost to a shriek, while his face became purple with rage.

It was now Mary’s turn to become frightened, for he had every appearance of a mad man. “Roger, Roger,” she cried, “constrain yourself. I will say no more. You shall have your will in everything, and if evil befalls you, do not say that you had no warning.”

For many days after this, comparative quiet reigned between Mary and Roger. She maintained a dignified silence, and spoke only when spoken to, while Roger spent his time mostly in grumbling at everybody, and everything that came near enough to him to cause him displeasure, but this forced peace was rudely broken one day by a message to Mary. Her grandfather was dead, and had been buried several days. She was needed in England, being sole heir to all his wealth. Roger smiled and congratulated himself as being a most fortunate fellow, while Mary in tears—for she had truly loved her grandparent—prepared for her sad journey.

Upon reaching England and meeting with old Mr. Willing’s lawyer, Roger’s feelings can better be imagined than described, when he found that Mary’s grandfather had died from the effects of her letter, telling of her unhappiness, but he had lived long enough to curse his nephew, and to add a codicil to his will, tying up everything so securely in Mary’s favor, that Roger could never hope for a shilling of it, even in the event of his wife’s death, for then it was to go to found a home for aged men, if she died without issue. Roger flew into a towering passion, and swore by all the gods that he would break the will, but he found that the old man knew well what he was doing, and that now Mary was independent of him, and could leave him if she chose, but she did not choose. He was still her husband, for better or for worse. She had chosen her lot. She must abide by the choosing. Divorce was something unheard of in those days, and even if it had been, Mary had too high a sense of honor to have availed herself of so questionable a mode of becoming free from a distasteful marriage. She uncomplainingly bowed her shoulders to the burden placed upon them, and after all business connected with her grandfather’s estates was settled, followed her husband on board an American vessel, and set sail for a new and untried land, to meet she knew not what.

As Roger neared his birthplace, he began to feel that pride in his possessions which is characteristic of us all to feel, no matter how humble may be the object which is our very own, and he pointed out to Mary with more real feeling in his manner than she had ever seen him manifest, the old house standing on the bluff, and as they entered the door he turned and kissed her, saying: “Welcome home, Mary. This is yours as well as mine,” and the thought came to her, that perhaps from this time on, they might live happier, and learn to love again.

Roger anticipated a stormy scene with Bella, but he had always been master in his own house, and it would not take long, he felt sure, to convince her that discretion was the better part of valor, and that she must again become slave where she had reigned mistress. After removing their wraps, he began at once to show Mary the quaint house in which she must now make her home. Through long crooked passages ending in unexpected octagon rooms, or perhaps in a high-ceilinged picture-gallery, they wandered, laughing and chatting pleasantly, and Mary felt nearer to and more at ease with Roger, than at any time since that terrible night in Paris. The shadow seemed lifting, and she gaily placed her arm within that of her husband’s, saying: “How delightful all this is, dear Roger. You have not told me half the beauties of this old place.”

“There is one more room, Mary, which will delight you, I know. We call it the gable room. There is not another like it in the whole world. If you wish it, it shall be yours. We can reach it best through my study. Come and I will show it you.”

They passed through the study, and Roger opened a panel in the wall most cunningly concealed, and began to ascend the narrow spiral staircase. Mary followed close behind.

“There is a grand staircase leading from the other side,” said Roger. “We will descend by that.” He had reached the top, when suddenly with a stealthly spring, a beautiful creature barred his further progress. Was it a woman? For a moment Mary could hardly have told. She was held spell-bound, fascinated by the panther-like grace of the creature, who threw back her magnificent head, and at the same time raised a faultless arm, bare to the shoulder of any covering, except many and curiously-wrought bracelets. “Halt, Roger Willing!” she cried in the rich, peculiar voice of her race. “You cannot enter here, and bring that woman. These are my apartments. If you wish to see me, come alone.”

Roger for a moment was startled, but quickly regaining his composure, he laughed lightly, saying: “Don’t be a fool, Bella. This lady is my wife, and your mistress.”

“Never!” cried Bella, passionately. “Never will I acknowledge any person as my mistress. Give me my freedom papers as you promised to do, and I will go away; me and my child.”

Roger laughed scornfully. “Your freedom papers, girl? Not I. Why, you have grown ten per cent. more valuable than you were a year ago. Your freedom papers! Well, I guess not, my beautiful tigress.”

“Then may your death be on your own head,” she said, solemnly, as she drew one hand from her pocket, and aimed a revolver at his breast. “With my freedom papers I would have gone; without them, neither you or I shall live!”

Before Roger could draw back she had fired, and the aim had been sure and true. With a cry Roger placed his hand to his heart, and fell backward, down the stairs, at the feet of Mary, who stood too horrified to move or speak. Another shot rang out, and Bella, her beautiful face covered with her life’s blood, fell across the threshold of the room she had so jealously guarded.

Mary covered her eyes from the awful sight, and stood trembling beside the still form of her husband. She dared not move, and when she essayed to scream no sound issued from her parched lips. Her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. A delicious sense of repose stole gradually over her, and as she sank upon her knees and rested her head on Roger’s quiet body, she thought “This then is death. Thank God.”

Not until the second supper-bell had sounded were they discovered. The living and the dead; and for many weeks after the sad tragedy, Mary’s life was despaired of, but her fine English constitution carried her through her severe trial, and four months after Roger Willing was laid at rest, there came a pair of sturdy boys to comfort Mary, and they in time helped her to partly forget the heavy shadow resting upon her home. As the years passed the twins grew, and were the pride of Mary’s heart, and also an ever-increasing care.

Roger the eldest by an hour was fair like Mary, with frank, fearless blue eyes, and flaxen curls. Andrew was swarthy skinned, dark browed, and had a somewhat forbidding countenance. Mary tried hard to show no partiality between them, but her heart would lean toward Roger, with his winning, courtly manner, and sunny disposition. Andrew saw it and rebelled, but not to his mother. His nature was too secretive to openly accuse her of having a fonder love for his twin brother, but every sweet endearing word, or tender look, bestowed upon Roger was carefully noted by Andrew, and pondered over in secret.

Mary carefully kept from them the manner of their father’s death, until their twenty-first birthday, then, taking them to the study she showed them the unused door, cunningly concealed behind tapestries, and sliding it back, revealed the secret staircase which had never echoed to the sound of footsteps since that fatal day.

Mary stood between her stalwart sons, and with an arm about each, told them of the tragedy enacted there twenty-one years before, and warned them of their father’s fate. She told them how, as soon as she was able, she had caused the front portion of the house leading to the gabled room to be walled up, and having changed her servants there was no one but herself who knew aught of the secret staircase leading from the study.

“Let us go up,” said Roger eagerly, placing his foot on the stairs, but his mother stayed him by a gentle touch.

“No, my son, the dust of twenty-one years rests upon the cursed things above. It is my will that no one shall ever enter there. If I could have kept the knowledge of your father’s fate from you, I would never have told you this, but I knew that sooner or later some evil tongue would whisper it to you, and I preferred to tell you the truth, although it has opened a wound that will never heal.”

Roger placed an arm about her waist, and kissed her white hair. “Your wish shall be sacred to me, mother mine. Much as I long to explore the gable room, I shall never enter it except with your permission.”

Andrew said nothing, but brushed a cobweb carelessly from the corner of the lower stair. A great black spider darted across his foot, another followed. Mary drew back, a startled look in her eyes. “Come away,” she cried, “come away. Black spiders are evil omens. No good will come I fear, from my showing you this ill-fated staircase.”

Andrew smiled and turned on his heel. “Superstition thy name is dear to woman. Where thou leadest she will follow,” he said sneeringly.

CHAPTER III.

Some few weeks later Mary received a letter, and hastened to impart its contents to her sons. “We are to be honored, especially honored, with a visit from Lady Augusta Vale and her daughter,” she said, with more animation than her sons had seen her display in years. “Augusta Champney was my dearest girl friend. In fact I had no other. We were inseparable. She was my maid of honor at my marriage, and was soon after married to Lord Arthur Vale, who died a few years ago leaving this daughter. I have always kept up a correspondence with Lady Vale, as you well know, having heard me speak of her many times. How gladly shall I welcome both mother and daughter, and if the dear child in any way resembles her mother as I remember her in her youthful beauty, then she is indeed most charming. Let me see, she must be about eighteen now.”

Mary cast a thoughtful eye at Roger, who sat idly drumming on the table, and looking out of the window with rather a bored expression.

Andrew saw his mother’s look and thought bitterly; “Her first thought is always of Roger. I know what’s in her mind. She has already selected the English girl to be my brother’s bride. Well he’s welcome to her. The Virginia girls are good enough for me, but it makes my blood boil to see mother place Roger first in everything, and if I thought I could frustrate her plans I would cut Roger out as soon as I saw any signs of his beginning to make love. I could do it, too.”

Roger suddenly stopped drumming on the table, and turned toward Mary. “How long will these grand people stay, mother mine?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, dear. Nothing definite is said in this letter. I shall not care if they never go away.”

“Whew! I think I’ll vacate,” exclaimed Roger, laughingly. “You won’t want a great lumbering fellow like me around after they get here. I’ve been wanting to go to New York for ever so long. Now is my chance.”

“Roger, you would never be so ungallant as to run away just at the very time when I need you most. Why I depend upon you to be our cavalier. What should I do?”

“Oh, Andy would pull you through all right. He can make himself twice as agreeable to the ladies as I can. He’ll have the English daisy dead in love with him in less than a month. Hey, old fellow?”

Roger rose and slapped Andrew heartily upon the back, whose brow clouded still darker as he watched his brother’s smiling face. “I’ll go off, also,” he said, gloomily. “Mother won’t want me around. She never does.”

“Don’t say that, my son,” replied Mary, warmly. “Why should I not want you? Are you not my own boy, and as dear to me as Roger? You will both stay here, I know, and help me to entertain my friends. Roger spoke a moment ago of their being grand people. Lady Augusta will be greatly changed from what I knew her, if she has even a spark of haughtiness. She is simple, and free from anything approaching the English pride of birth, which mar the otherwise lovely characters of the ladies of England. I am sure she is too wise and thoughtful to rear her daughter in any other but the true way, so we may expect to receive and welcome two ladies who are not ‘grand,’ as Roger is pleased to style them, but who will be as ourselves. Lady Vale could boast of her high lineage if she chose, for there is no bluer blood in all England, but she is not one to make a show, or parade her ancestors. I am sure you will never hear her speak of it boastingly. She has not much of a fortune left, I believe. Just enough to make her comfortable.”

Mary ended her little speech with a look of entreaty toward Roger, which said plainly: “You are my dear son. There is none other in the whole world like you. Stay and lay siege to this maiden’s heart, and give me a daughter.” Roger interpreted the look, and arose with a shrug of his shoulders, and left the room. His mother’s manner was marked, and therefore man-like, he mulishly determined that no one should arrange his love affairs for him, and that if his mother for a moment imagined such a thing, he would very shortly undeceive her. Accordingly, a few days before the visitors were expected, he appeared at his mother’s private room, attired for traveling. “I’m off for New York, mother mine,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Don’t know how long I shall be gone.”

Mary arose and threw her arms around his neck. “This is not treating me fairly, my son. I know you are going on account of my guests who are coming. Why do you object so strongly to meeting with them?”

“Home won’t seem the same after they get here,” replied Roger, brushing the soft hair from his mother’s brow. “Andy will take good care of Lady Vale and her daughter, and I’ll promise not to be gone longer than they stay. Write me when they are leaving, and you’ll see me here in a jiffy.”

Mary watched him depart with a tearful face. His long, swinging strides soon took him from her view, and she sank into a seat, burying her face in her hands. Until now she had not fully realized how much she had reckoned on Roger’s falling in love with the daughter of her old friend. He was heart free she well knew, never having cared especially for any one lady, and she had really set her heart upon a marriage between her favorite son and this girl who she imagined must be just the wife for him. Now her plans were all dashed to the ground, and by her own foolishness, too. If she had not mentioned their coming, but had taken Roger by surprise, all might have been well.

She dashed the tears away, and went out to find Andrew, whom she told of his brother’s departure. Andrew was not ill-pleased at the course Roger had taken. He had not much of an idea of laying siege to Miss Vale’s heart, still he was not unconscious of his brother’s superiority in many ways, and he thought to himself that so long as the ladies stayed, it was as well for Roger to be absent, and very thoughtful of him to take himself out of the way.

Soon after this the ladies came. Lady Vale, tall, statuesque, with snow white hair, and a beautiful face despite her years, and her daughter, so much like the mother, barring the beautiful bronze hair, and laughing grey eyes in which, as yet, there was no shadow of a sorrow. Both had the same sweet, serious mouth, charming when in repose, but most enchanting when parted with a smile, which was often the case with Victoria Vale. Her’s was a sunny nature, and Mary took her to her heart at once. In less than a week they had grown to be inseparable companions, and Lady Vale often laughingly remarked, that she was beginning to feel the pangs of jealousy for the first time in her life.

“If God had only blessed me with a daughter like you,” sighed Mary as she was strolling with her young companion. “It has ever been a sorrow to me that one of my sons was not a daughter.”

“Surely you do not love either of your sons less, just because he is a boy?” asked Victoria quickly.

“No-o,” said Mary, hesitatingly, “yet I would rather Andrew had been a girl.”

“She loves the absent one more dearly,” mused Victoria, looking at Mary’s speaking face. “Will you tell me about the son who is not here?” she asked, drawing Mary to a rustic seat and placing an arm about her.

“With pleasure, my love. You have seen his portrait, but that is cold, inanimate. It does not, cannot give you his winning charm of manner, his laughing voice, so full of hearty cheer. I miss him sadly, Victoria. He is a part of myself. We have never been separated so long before. The boys have often taken trips with their tutor while being educated, but never of very long duration, unless I went also. I long for his merry voice, always gay. I long to hear him say, ‘I am here, mother, mine.’”

“Why do you not send for him, Mrs. Willing? I am sure he will gladly return if he knows how you long for him.”

Mary gazed at the unconscious face of the beautiful girl. Dare she tell her what was in her mind? Dare she awaken thoughts which, until now, she was sure Victoria knew nothing of? Yes, she would. Her mother-love for the absent made her scent approaching danger, and she had noticed Andrew’s growing interest in her fair guest. She would speak. There could be no great harm in that. She took Victoria’s hand, and pressed it gently, while she looked directly into the sweet grey eyes.

“Roger is shy where ladies are, except, of course, his old mother. I fear he ran away to avoid you.”

A faint, pink flush covered Victoria’s face, and neck, and she quickly drew her hand from Mary’s.

“I am sorry,” she said, simply. “My mother and I will proceed on our travels to-morrow.”

“No, no, dear child,” cried Mary, in alarm. “You misunderstand me. Do not think for a moment that you are keeping Roger from his home. He—he—oh, how can I tell you, my sweet girl, for fear you may think my words designing ones, and still you should know me better. I would sooner die than cause you sorrow, or make you afraid of me.”

Victoria kissed Mary, and said gently: “Dear Mrs. Willing, I could never suspect you to be anything but good, true, and full of zealous care for my well-being. Next to dear mamma I love and adore you. Then what is this that agitates you so? Will you not tell me?”

“Yes, I will tell you, Victoria. Roger has gone away because—because he loves you.”

“Loves me!” cried the girl, rising and confusedly placing her hands to her head. “Ah, no, dear madam. You are mistaken. He has never seen me.”

“Ah, my dear, he does not need to see you. Love is not born with the sight. It is of the spirit. We have talked of you so much. He has dwelt upon your image, until he is already acquainted with you, and he has flown from you, abashed at his own boldness in daring to love one so far above him.”

Victoria buried her blushing face in her hands, and Mary gently drew the beautiful head to her bosom. “Do not be alarmed, dear one. He is not coming back to disturb your peace. He will never tell you of his love, so now forget that I have spoken, or that such a being as Roger Willing lives. I cannot part with you; your mother has not a warmer affection for you than I. Then why not remain here in America, making short trips to different points of interest, but always making this your abiding place.”

Artful Mary. If she had studied the rules of diplomacy all her life, she could not have taken a surer way of arousing Victoria’s interest in the absent Roger, than by talking as she had done.

Many times for weeks after, Victoria caught herself blushing at what Mary had told her. There is no young girl if told that a man whom she has never seen, and who has never seen her, is madly in love with her, but what will often allow her thoughts to wander to the absent one. “Poor fellow,” she thinks, “I am heartily sorry for him, but of course he did the best thing for himself by going away. I should never have fancied him, and it would have been dreadful to have had him in the same house with me.” Some such thoughts as these often ran through Victoria’s mind, and she would have been thoroughly surprised at herself if anybody had taken her to task as to how many times a day Roger’s name was on her tongue, or in her mind. She would have blushed to answer. Yes, indeed. Artful Mary.

At first Andrew met Victoria only at meal times, and in the drawing-room after dinner, and to his mother’s queries as to how he liked her, he answered that he “never did fancy red heads and owls’ eyes,” much to Mary’s secret satisfaction, but it was not long ere Andrew sought Victoria in her favorite haunts about the grounds, and if he saw her start out for a ramble or canter he was not slow in following her. Victoria did not dislike his attentions. His dark melancholy beauty was extremely fascinating, and Andrew had a manner if he chose to exercise it, that few women could resist. And in a very few weeks he threw all the fascinations of which he was master around the unconscious Victoria. Mesmerism was a subject just being agitated at that time, and Andrew was deeply interested in it. He believed Victoria to be of a yielding, pliant nature, and one easily influenced by magnetism. If they were sitting at the table he would fix his eyes upon her, and presently her eyelids would gently tremble, and then she would raise her eyes like a frightened fawn to his, and he would turn away with a satisfied smile. Again, he would be sitting upon the veranda as she passed out. He would follow her with his eyes, willing her to go so far and no further. She would stop, hesitate, turn back, and again ascend the steps, and seat herself beside him. All this pleased him, and he felt sure of being able to will her to do his bidding at any time when he saw fit. At first he was only interested in her, and had no thought of love or marriage, but as the weeks went by, he felt a longing for her presence when she was absent, and the mere sound of her voice in greeting, sent a thrill through him, which told him that if he did not already love, he was near to the brink.

As for Victoria, she was totally ignorant of any feeling, except friendship, for Andrew Willing, unless it might be a vague uneasiness when in his presence, for which she was unable to account. She knew that she breathed easier when away from him, and that very often she accompanied him on drives and boating, when she did not care to go, but felt some unseen power almost compelling her to do that which was against her will. She often raised her eyes to find his fixed upon her with a strange light in their depths, which made a chill go through her, and at times when she felt this unaccountable feeling, she would steal into the picture-gallery, and gaze long and earnestly at Roger’s quiet, peaceful face. It rested her, she knew not why, and she always went out feeling calmer, and more like her old self ere any disturbing element had come into her life.

Lady Vale did not see this little drama being enacted under her eyes, or she might have taken her daughter away, for she had conceived a dislike for Andrew, unaccountable even to herself; but Mary’s eyes were open, and she looked on with fear and trembling. Oh, if Roger would only return before the mischief had gone too far. She would write a pleading letter, taking care not to mention the name of Vale, and perhaps he might come home. So the letter was sent, and very shortly the answer came. Roger was enjoying himself hugely, and had no desire to return until the English visitors had departed.

“Well,” thought Mary, “if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain. I will propose that we all take a trip, and it will be strange if I cannot bring them together before the journey is ended. I am satisfied what the result will be, once they see each other. My boy cannot help loving her, and she will likewise be drawn to him.”

Mary was not long in broaching the subject of travel to Lady Vale, who acquiesced immediately; and inside of a week, the house was left to the care of servants, and the four people had started for Canada.

Andrew was delighted with the arrangement, for he anticipated much pleasure journeying with the girl he loved, for he now acknowledged to himself that he was madly in love with the sweet fair English maiden, whose smile was heaven to him, and for whom if need be he would gladly die. He longed to breathe his passion but he dared not. Something in the serene, unconscious face restrained him, and he felt that he could afford to wait. He seemingly had things all his own way. He saw how his mesmeric power controlled her, and he felt no fear but that when the proper time came, she could no more resist him than the charmed bird can resist the pitiless eyes of the snake. He knew that she had not a spark of regard for him, but that would matter little when the time should come to act. His was the stronger will; he would compel her to yield to his love, then it would be an easy and most pleasant task to teach her to love him.

CHAPTER IV.

They had been travelling for nearly two months, visiting the mountains and the different lakes, and Mary was beginning to think about getting toward New York and Roger, when without any warning came a telegram, announcing a fatal explosion which had resulted in the probable loss of both eyes to Roger. He was in a hospital and wanted his mother. Mary lost no time in going to him taking Andrew with her, and leaving Lady Vale and her daughter to return to the “Five Gables,” and make everything comfortable for the invalid’s reception, for Mary determined on taking Roger home as soon as permissable.

In the hurried preparation for departure, Andrew saw no way in which to broach the subject of his love for Victoria. He doubted if she would listen kindly when so agitated by his mother’s keen distress, so he bade the girl who had become so dear to him, a calm good-bye, and left her with a strange sinking at the heart, which he knew was not caused by the news of his brother’s accident, but by a presentiment of something about to befall Victoria.

Lady Vale and Victoria hurried back to Mary’s home, and there waited in sorrow for the home-coming of one whom they knew to be his mother’s idol. Mary had written that there was “no hope that Roger would ever see again, but they dare not tell him just yet. Let him fully recover from the shock to his nervous system.”

Lady Vale’s eyes filled with tears as she read the letter, which showed plainly a mother’s buried hopes. “Poor Mary,” she said as she handed the letter to Victoria. “The sun of her world has gone down never to rise again. Her hopes have all been centered in that boy. She seemed to care but little for Andrew. It was all Roger, Roger with her. How will she bear this heavy cross?”

Victoria took the letter, and stole up to the picture-gallery, and stood before Roger’s smiling, winsome face. “Could it be possible that the light of those laughing eyes had gone out forever? Ah no. God was good. He would restore to Roger his sight,” she felt sure.

They arrived at evening when everything was hushed and still, and a quiet peaceful calm rested on the home nest. Victoria watched the carriage being driven up to the door, then she fled to her room. She could not meet him yet. Not till the sorrow of being in his childhood’s home, which his eyes never more would gaze upon, had lost its first bitterness. She had seen Mary descend from the carriage weeping, and had seen Andrew assist a blindfolded figure tenderly out, and she realized that she had no part in their grief; that she was only a stranger, and a vague longing took possession of her—a longing to be nearer the stricken one; a wish to take a sister’s part in nursing him back to health and strength.

In a few moments, she went down, but not into the family sitting-room. She took a light wrap from the rack in the hall, and passed quietly out into the fast gathering twilight; but the quick eye of Andrew had seen her form pass the open door, and he followed her, glad of the chance to see her alone. She turned as she heard his step, and although the darkness partly concealed his face, she noticed the glad ring in his voice as he came quickly up to her, and took both her hands in his. “Victoria, sweet one, are you glad that I am back? Did you miss me? Oh how your pure face maddens me,” and before she had realized what he was about to do, he had caught her to him, and had pressed a burning kiss upon her lips.

Victoria struggled to free herself, but she failed, and indignantly looked up into the face of her captor. His eyes shone with a strange light. She felt a dreamy languor stealing upon her, a desire to sleep. What did it mean? Had this man a power over her which she was unable to resist? Horrible thought. She made one more feeble attempt to get away, and then lay passive and quiet in his arms.

He looked gloatingly down at his helpless burden. “I have conquered,” he whispered hoarsely. “She cannot fly from me now. She is mine. Victoria, my sweet angel?”

“Yes,” she answered faintly.

“Put your arms about my neck and kiss me.”

She slowly did as he bade her, but there was no expression in the white face pressed to his, no passion in the kiss. Only a passive obedience to his will, which shamed him, hardened though he was, and he felt no pleasure in the caress which he had been obliged to gain by force. He gently drew her to a rustic seat, and fanned her with his hat. In a few moments she breathed a low sigh and looked up into his face; then she started to her feet and would have fled if he had not caught her arm and held her.

“Let me go,” she cried. “You hurt me.”

“Victoria, be seated for a moment until I can explain,” he said pleadingly. “I have not meant to be harsh with you. Any culprit has a right to plead his cause and ask for mercy. Then will you hear me?”

“I will hear you,” she answered coldly, “but I prefer to stand.”

“That means that you have no confidence in me,” he retorted bitterly. “You are safe from my touch, Victoria. I shall never lay hands on you again without your permission. I did not mean to frighten you, I had no intention of doing as I did. I was a brute. Will you forgive me?”

“No,” she answered indignantly.

His lips parted in a dangerous smile. “You will not forgive me this slight offense. Then if I am in disgrace with you I might as well tell you all. I love you! Stay, Victoria,” as she turned toward the house. “You shall hear me. I adore you! Life will not be worth living if you do not share it with me. I want you for my wife, and I mean to have you. Yes,” as she scornfully tossed her head. “As surely as this moon shines in the sky above us, just as surely will I win you for my wife. You do not think so now; you say in your mind, ‘I hate him,’ but the time will come when you shall humbly place your arms about my neck, and say of your own free will, ‘I love you; I am yours.’”

If Victoria had been a girl of the period she might have returned a saucy and spirited answer, but being a young lady carefully reared by an English mamma, and living long before slang was invented, she simply said: “Are you done, Mr. Willing?”

“Yes, I am done, Lady Victoria Vale.’

“Thank you for placing me on my guard. I shall know how to meet you from this time on,” and with these words she turned and left him.

Andrew sat for some time in deep thought. He was not disheartened at the turn affairs had taken. He knew his power and meant to use it, but in a more temperate way than he had begun. He must be careful and not frighten the bird away, or all would be lost. So long as she staid under the same roof with him, he was confident of success.

Victoria made one great mistake. She did not tell her mother. At first she felt ashamed, humiliated, and dared not confide in her best friend. She knew that her mother would immediately start for England, and she did not want to go. She loved Mary dearly, and now here was Roger afflicted sorely, and she had promised Mary to be his eyes for a while at any rate. Then why should she allow her hatred of Andrew to drive her away from duty, and why should she tell her mother of a disagreeable episode which would never occur again. It would only disturb her, so Victoria met Andrew at breakfast the next morning with a serene countenance, and the two elder ladies dreamed not of the tempest in the two young hearts.

Roger did not appear at breakfast. He was still very much fatigued from his journey, and dreading to meet strangers with this affliction still new upon him, he breakfasted in his own rooms, which Mary had made the brightest and most cheerful looking in the house, even if her darling could not see them. She hastily drank a cup of coffee, then begging to be excused, saying “Roger would feel lonely if left too long,” she went out, leaving Lady Vale with Victoria to entertain Andrew.

Victoria looked after Mary with wistful eyes. How she longed to accompany her, and beg to be allowed to minister to the invalid’s many wants.

Lady Vale glanced rather anxiously at Victoria’s pale face and drooping eyes. “Are you not well, my love?” she asked.

Victoria started, and a faint rose color supplanted the lily in her cheeks. “I was not aware of feeling other than in the best of health, dear mamma. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I thought your general expression savored of lassitude; lacked vivacity, as it were. No doubt the depressingly warm weather has something to do with it. Now that Mary is again at home and does not need us, would you like to visit some of the lakes, or perhaps the mountains?”

Andrew listened almost breathlessly for Victoria’s reply. He expected to hear a quick assent to Lady Vale’s proposition. After his rough conduct of last night Victoria would gladly make her escape from his hateful presence. He could hardly conceal a smile of delight as Victoria laughed lightly, and said: “Ah, mamma, what did I tell you the other day? Did I not say that you were sadly in need of spectacles? That your eyesight was rapidly failing you? And this proves it. To think that you should imagine I was losing my health. I never felt better in my life. I do not care to travel. What more enchanting spot can we find than this? I never tire of its beauties, besides I promised dear Mrs. Willing to lighten her labor of love, by assisting her in reading to, and caring for, the invalid. Would it be courtesy on our part to leave her just at the time when she needs us most?”

“Certainly not, my daughter. If such be the case, we will stay by all means. I only spoke of going away because I felt concerned as to your health.”

“Then let your heart be reassured, dear mamma,” answered Victoria, rising and kissing Lady Vale. “I feel more than usually bright this morning. Will you walk with me down by the lake? We have still a few more lines of Virgil to translate.”

“With pleasure, my love. Will you not accompany us, Andrew?”

Andrew hesitated, and was about to assent, when a warning flash from Victoria’s eyes stayed him. It plainly said “Do not inflict your presence any longer upon me, sir. I shall rebel.”

“I am extremely sorry, Lady Vale, but I have sadly neglected my duties in being away from home caring for Roger. I must now go over the different plantations, and start immediately, so adieu for to-day and possibly for several days. I may find much to detain me.” He bowed courteously to Victoria, gallantly kissed Lady Vale’s hand, and left the room.

Victoria’s heart gave a bound of relief. “Now I shall be my old self again,” she thought. “Relieved of his odious watchful eyes following me everywhere, I can again be natural. Ugh! I feel as if a snake had crawled over me, and left its nasty trail behind.”

She gave her arm to Lady Vale. “Come mamma, let us get out into the beautiful sunlight, among the fragrant blooming trees. I feel stifled here.”

They had been down by the lake over an hour. Lady Vale with her white hands idly resting in her lap, was watching two swans which were sailing majestically on the placid bosom of the water, while she listened to the sweet voice of Victoria, reading the closing lines of Virgil. Suddenly she looked toward the avenue, and placed her hand on Victoria’s arm. “Hush, daughter, I heard voices. Ah, I thought I was not mistaken. It is Mary leading her son. Is not that a touching sight? Who could look upon it without being affected. The mother, her hair whitened with years, bending her form under the weight of her stalwart youthful son upon whom she has centered all her hopes.”

Victoria raised her head, and her eyes filled with tears. Roger’s head was bent until his lips touched his mother’s hair. They were still too far away for her to distinguish what they were saying.

“How does the dear old place look, mother mine? Is it changed?”

“Not at all, dear Roger. The peacocks are strutting on the lawn. The swans are sailing on the lake, and, oh my darling, the fairest girl who ever lived is sitting on the stone seat which you fashioned with your own hands when but a lad. You ran away from her, but fate, or a kind Providence which ever you will, has decreed that you are to meet. You are not averse to it, my son?”

“Not now, mother. I can be nothing but an object of pity to her, and as for me, all interest in anything feminine has ceased forever.”

Victoria rose and advanced to meet them.

“Oh, if you could only see her now,” exclaimed Mary. “She is tall and most beautifully formed. Her complexion is like roses; her eyes like stars; but they are filled with tears, my son; and those tears are for you; and the expression on her sweet face is such, that if you could but see it, you would take her in your arms and kiss the tears away. It is not pity. It is love; maidenly love, which as yet does not know that it loves.”

Victoria was near enough now to hear Roger say: “Mother, you speak wildly. What do you mean?” and she wondered what Mary had been saying.

“Ah, Victoria, I missed you, and wondered where you had hidden. Roger, this is Lady Victoria Vale, of whom you have often heard me speak.”

Roger pressed the little hand placed within his, and smiled. Victoria thought she had never seen a more winning smile, yet it was full of sadness.

“Yes, I ought to know Lady Victoria Vale very well,” he said, still retaining her hand; “but I should like to have met her under brighter circumstances.” He lightly touched the bandage about his eyes. “If I could but tear off this hateful band, and be able to see the beautiful vision which my mother is never tired of praising! But that pleasure is denied me. I must be content to see only with her eyes.”

Victoria blushed and withdrew her hand.

“Dear Mrs. Willing is partial, and I am afraid sees only with the eyes of love. She says she loves me as she would a daughter, so you must excuse any little exaggerations on her part.”

Mary had gone on and left the young people together, while she spoke with Lady Vale. “Come,” continued Victoria, “let me introduce you to my mother. Shall I become your guide? Your mother has basely deserted you.”

“Hail to her desertion,” laughed Roger as he felt Victoria’s arm slip into his. “This is a lucky exchange of companions for me. Are you not taller than my mother?”

“Somewhat,” replied Victoria, leading him to her mother who rose and grasped both his hands, kissing him tenderly.

“Ah! this is indeed a greeting worth having,” cried Roger. “See what it is to be an invalid. I doubt if you would have accorded me this honor, had I been presented to you six months ago, Lady Vale.”

“Who knows,” replied Lady Vale, who saw that Roger chose to make light of his affliction, and did not wish too much sympathy expressed. “I am glad that I am not a young lady. I am afraid I should lose my heart. You are too dangerous as it is. No wonder your mother’s life is all centered in you.”

Roger’s laugh rang out joyously, and Mary smiled to see him in such good spirits.

“Ah, Lady Vale, it is very plain to be seen that you have visited Ireland, and kissed the ‘Blarney Stone,’” said Roger.

Lady Vale placed her hand on the young man’s arm. “My dear boy,” she said gravely, “I love your mother as I would a sister. I love her sons because they are her sons. I have mourned with her over this affliction which has come upon you, until you have become very near to me. There has has been no flattery meant in the few words I have spoken.”

Roger grasped the white hand still lying on his arm, and carried it to his lips, while his voice had a suspicious tremble in it as he said, “I never longed for my sight as I do at this moment. My mother has undertaken to describe you, but I am sure her description must fall far short of the reality. How is it that I am blessed with so charming a trio to minister to my comfort, and to help to chase dull care away? I have been anything but a docile invalid, have I not, mother mine?”

“You have been most patient, my son. Indeed, I have wondered how you could bear all that you have with such rare fortitude, but sit down on this rustic seat made by yourself, and rest. I am sure Victoria will most gladly take upon herself the task of entertaining you, while Lady Vale accompanies me to the gardener’s cottage. I must see him before luncheon.”

Roger smiled as his mother gently pressed him into the old stone seat, and walked away with Lady Vale. Victoria stood a short distance from him, looking out over the lake, and thinking: “What shall I say to him? I must be cheerful while I feel just like crying, and I can’t think of a pleasant word to say. I wish I had a good book. One never need to exert themselves when they can read something interesting. I will ask him who is his favorite author, then step up to the house and select it.”

“Am I deserted?” said Roger, putting out his hand gropingly. “I thought I heard my mother say that Lady Victoria Vale would stay by me.”

“I am here,” replied Victoria, moving nearer. Roger touched her dress.

“There used to be room enough for two on this stone. It has not changed, I think. Will you not sit beside me? I like to have people near while I talk to them.”

Victoria complied, blushing slightly, as there was scant room for two, and necessitated the placing of Roger’s arm over the back of the seat.

“How ridiculous of me to blush,” she thought, “he can’t see me.”

“Now tell me how you like our home, Lady Victoria. Is it not the fairest spot you have ever seen?”

“It is very beautiful, Mr. Willing, but I know one fairer, and more dear to me.”

“Ah! I can guess without further explanation from you. It is your English home. Let me see, what is the name of it? I have heard my mother say.”

“Valecourt, Mr. Willing. Oh, it is so beautiful. I wish you might see it.” She stopped in confusion, as a pained expression rested for a moment upon Roger’s face. “Oh, what have I said, pray forgive me, Mr. Willing. I am such a blunderer. I had forgotten your affliction.”

“Don’t make any excuses,” replied Roger, trying to laugh cheerfully. “You were wishing I might see your home so far away. What is to hinder me? I will see it now by proxy. You shall describe it so graphically that I shall need no eyes, and perhaps, who knows, in the years to come I may gaze upon its beauties. I shall not always be blind.”

Victoria gazed at the young man pityingly. She knew how hopeless was his case by Mary’s despairing letters. “Would it not be better if he knew?” she thought. “Would it not be more charitable to tell him the truth?” She would consult Mrs. Willing.

Roger continued. “I will forgive you on one condition. That you drop the formal Mr. Willing, and call me Roger. No one calls me Mr. Willing, except strangers, and you are not a stranger. You are my cousin. Your mother said as much. She said she was my mother’s sister. I’ll tell you what we will do. I hate the handle to your name. I am too thoroughly American to enjoy titles, although my parents were of English blood. I’ll call you Cousin Victoria, while to you I am Cousin Roger.”

“Agreed,” said Victoria, laughing. “I never did like those near to me to call me Lady Victoria. It places me miles away from them.”

Roger felt a strange thrill in the region of his heart as Victoria said “those near to me.” Then he was one of the fortunate “those.” How soon would it be ere he could dispense with the hateful bandage, and look upon the face of the sweet-voiced maiden, who so unconsciously said such comforting things?

“Let us begin without delay, then, Cousin Victoria; tell me of your fair English home, Valecourt.”

While Victoria pictured her home to Roger, Lady Vale and Mary walked slowly toward the gardener’s cottage arm in arm.

“You have guessed my hopes, dear Augusta, or I should say, what was once my hope, in regard to your child and my Roger.”

“Yes, Mary,” and Lady Vale pressed her friends hand tenderly. “Shattered hopes. I will say that I should not have been averse to their union, had Roger been in full possession of his health, but now—dear Mary, you surely cannot wish it, while of course Victoria will not allow herself to love a blind man. Think of what a future hers would be, tied for life to a never-ceasing care. Ah no, it can never, never be.”

Mary burst into tears. “My poor boy! What a dark prospect lies before him. I must tell him the physician’s decision, though the telling break my heart.”

“Has he enough strength of will, think you, to bear up under it? When he knows there is no hope, will he do as so many have done before him? Will he take his own life.”

“God forbid! Oh Augusta, you are a mother; pity a sorrowing mother’s breaking heart, and promise me, that if God brings those two young hearts together, and they love, in spite of Roger’s affliction, promise me that you will consent to their union; that you will do nothing to separate them?”

Mary stopped and wound her arms around Lady Vale, who kissed the tear-stained face of her friend. “It is a hard thing to promise, dear Mary.”

“Ah! but my heart will break if you do not. Think of how little Roger will have to make him happy. Think of what a joy such a love as Victoria’s would be to him. They may not love, but if they do, will you promise me not to withhold your consent? Do Augusta, or my life will be miserable.” And Lady Vale, although her heart misgave her, finally consented, hoping that Victoria’s good sense would prevent her from doing anything so rash.

CHAPTER V.

Andrew remained away three days. They seemed the longest three days in all his life. He longed to be near Victoria, to hear her voice, to watch her changing face, even if she did show weariness at his presence, and treat him with scorn. His perseverance must win in the long run, and then how sweet the victory. He doubted if he would have loved her with half the fervor, if she had willingly thrown herself into his arms, but her scornful half-averted looks, only made the blood course faster through his veins, and the chase was twice as fascinating. As he rode up the broad avenue that quiet summer evening, he was as positive of victory, as though Victoria were already his wife, and he anticipated the swift look of disdain which would shoot from her eyes, with as much ardor as a favored lover longs for his mistress’s most enchanting smile. To his enamored fancy her coldness was only a sure sign of a complete conquest for him. As he drew near the house he heard voices, and then a laugh which he knew could only belong to one person, Victoria. The happy, joyous ring of her voice told that she was enjoying her companion’s society. Andrew wondered who it could be. A pang of jealousy shot through him, as he descried a tall, manly form with his arm passed through Victoria’s, slowly pacing in front of him. “Ah!” he thought, “so we have a visitor. Very familiar, I must say. I’ll soon put an end to that.” He savagely thrust his spurs into the animal’s sides, causing the poor creature to rear and plunge madly, while Victoria who had not heard Andrew approaching, screamed and jumped to one side, dragging Roger with her, as the horse dashed by. Andrew wheeled and returned, glancing quickly at Victoria’s companion, and when he saw the blindfolded figure of his brother, he uttered an exclamation which sounded very much like “damn.” He had forgotten Roger, or if he had thought of him, it was of his being in a darkened room shut away from everything joyous, and bemoaning his fate. Instead, Andrew saw him apparently happy, with a jest on his lips, entertaining his fair guide in a manner peculiarly Roger’s own, and “evidently very pleasing to Victoria,” Andrew thought bitterly, for he had never been able to beguile such laughter from those sweet lips. In another moment he was smiling at his foolishness, at being for even a second jealous of a blind man. “Of course she is doing her best to cheer him,” he thought. “Poor Roger. Why should I begrudge him a few moments of happiness? It’s all he’ll ever get, I fancy.”

He alighted and grasped Roger by the hand. “Hello, old chap,” he said heartily. “I’m glad to see you out, and more like your old self than when I went away. How are the eyes progressing?” To Victoria he merely raised his hat, who acknowledged his salutation by a silent bow.

“Hello, yourself,” cried Roger, taking his arm from Victoria’s. “I’m right glad to see you back again, Andrew. My eyes are doing fine, thank you. I think it nonsense to keep all this fol-de-rol around them. I’m sure they would get well much quicker without the bandage. I fancied I could see a ray of light this morning, as Richard dressed them.”

Andrew started, and glanced toward Victoria, but she stood a little apart, with her eyes on the ground, and as he slipped his horse’s bridle over one arm, he offered the other to Roger, saying: “Come, brother, let me perform the pleasant duty of guiding you, although I may not be so apt as your fair companion. I hope it will not be long now that any one shall have to be eyes for you.” While in his heart he was saying: “Can it be possible that the doctor was wrong in saying that his eyesight was totally destroyed? Doctors make mistakes sometimes, as well as other people. Well, if such be the case my goose will be cooked; I can see that with half an eye. Victoria would never look at me twice, after gazing into the laughing eyes of Roger, for he is far superior to me, and I know it. Well, may the best fellow win. I can hold my own with a man without eyes, but, ah yes, there is a but in every case, I reckon, and if Roger regains the sight of those melting orbs, good-bye, Andrew Willing, and exaunt from the scene.”

He followed his mother from the dining-room after their evening meal, and when they were alone, he said: “Is there any hope of Roger regaining his sight?”

“None whatever, Andrew.”

“But he told me he fancied he could see a ray of light this morning, when his attendant was dressing his eyes.”

Mrs. Willing began to weep. “Poor boy, he fancies that every day; perhaps he can distinguish light from darkness, but what is that? I had a letter from Dr. Kohler last night. He is coming—as he promised to do—when it is time to remove the bandage. Then he will break the news to Roger. It is better that he should hear it from a stranger.”

Andrew went out from his mother’s presence with almost rejoicing in his heart. He knew he ought to mourn with her at this affliction which had come upon his twin brother, but instead, he felt a wicked satisfaction in knowing that Roger would be shorn of his greatest strength as long as he lived. The care of the plantation, all money matters which had once been Roger’s prerogative, would now revert to the younger brother; younger by one short hour, but who had been made to feel all his life, that Roger was his superior in everything, and now,—now that a new love had sprung up in his heart, and for a moment, a fierce jealousy as well, he knew that if Roger by any chance should regain his eyesight, he should hate him with bitterer hatred than ever Cain displayed toward his brother. All else he might relinquish in Roger’s favor, but Victoria never.

For several days he watched the pair with Argus eyes. Not a motion made by either escaped him. Victoria was soon conscious of his espionage, and became guarded in her actions, never betraying by word or look the deep interest she felt in Roger, so that Andrew finally concluded, that Roger was fast falling in love with Victoria, but that she cared nothing for the blind man, nor would she ever. He soon tried his power over Victoria, and to his delight found it as strong as ever. One day he was sitting in the little rustic summer-house, when he saw her going down the avenue toward the lodge gates. He never took his eyes off of her figure, but slowly put out both hands toward her. Presently she turned, and came rapidly back directing her steps to where he was sitting. There were two doors to the summer-house, and as she approached, he quietly slipped out behind an acacia bush, taking care not to turn his back to her, keeping his eyes fixed steadily upon her. She entered by the opposite door and sat down, with a vacant expression in her eyes, languidly leaning her head against the lattice work. A few seconds passed, and Andrew stole out from behind the bush, and seated himself beside her, taking her passive hand in his, and patting it gently.

“Are you happy, Victoria,” he whispered.

“Oh, so happy,” she answered dreamily.

“Do you love?”

“Ah yes,” with a sigh, “I love.”

He passed his hand over her face and her eyes closed. “Do you love me, Victoria darling?”

“Yes, I love you.”

“Then kiss me. Kiss my hands, my hair, my face!”

Victoria complied, and different to that other time when he had forced her, there was now a passionate abandonment in her caresses, which caused the blood to course through his veins like fire, and he caught her to his breast, pressing his face to the one not whiter than his own.

“God in heaven, how I love her!” he cried. A moment later he was again behind the bush, and Victoria slowly opened her eyes, yawned, and looked about her, bewildered. “Strange,” she said dreamily, “very strange. How came I here? I started for the lodge. Oh, I know. I felt so sort of weak and trembling, that I decided to rest for a moment. I must have dropped asleep.” She arose and passed out.

As soon as she had disappeared, Andrew entered the summer-house, flung himself down on the seat so lately occupied by Victoria, and remained buried in thought for some time. He dared not try his power too often, and only then when he was safe from detection. He knew that if Victoria’s suspicions should be again aroused, she would flee from the house, and he would lose her forever; so when in her presence he was most circumspect, and veiled his eyes when he knew they betrayed too dangerous a fire.

Meanwhile Roger’s eyes had ceased to pain him, and he chafed at having to still wear the bandage. One day his ill-humor and impatience got the upper hand of him, and he took Victoria by surprise by suddenly tearing the bandage from his face. She had been reading Ivanhoe to him. They were out in their favorite stone seat by the lake. A quick gesture caused her to glance up, and she uttered a faint cry, for she saw him for the first time without the disfiguring cloth.

“Oh, Cousin Roger! What made you?” she cried. “You must let me bandage your eyes again.”

“Never,” he replied, catching her hand as he felt it touch his face. “I have waited for that confounded doctor to come till I’m tired. My eyes must get accustomed to the light or I’ll never see, and Victoria, I have heard your voice, your laugh, have felt your presence until I am wild to see your face.” He groped for her face, and took it between his hands, drawing it close until it nearly touched his own.

“Can you see me?” she asked eagerly. He sadly dropped his hands.

“No, Victoria. I cannot see even an object. Oh, God! the thought that perhaps I may be totally blind is maddening. Victoria!” His voice as he spoke her name ran the whole gamut of love, hope, despair, misery.

Victoria quickly placed her hand upon his. “What is it, dear Roger?”

“Victoria, I cannot live if I am blind. When the doctor comes, if he tells me there is no hope, I shall end my useless life—there.” He pointed toward the lake.

“Oh, no, no, Roger! How can you think of anything so horrible? Have you no love for your mother who adores you, that you should grieve her so?”

“I shall soon be forgotten, Victoria. Better to die and end it all than to live a burden, and no comfort to anybody. Ah, Victoria, you do not know what hopes I have cherished. What visions I have seen. God grant they may be realized.” He grasped the hand which still lingered on his arm. “My angel of peace, my comforter, my eyes, it is a cruel question I am going to ask you. Could you sacrifice your youth, your fresh beauty, to become the companion for life of one who would be a constant care; who could not bear to have you from his side one moment?”

A glad light suffused Victoria’s face, but ere she could reply Andrew stood before them. She quickly withdrew her hand from Roger’s, whose sad countenance became still sadder.

“Ah, here you are,” said Andrew, noting with his keen eyes the disturbed faces before him. “What, Roger! Are you without the bandage?”