CHAPTER IX.
“We descended into the narrow pass where lay in a disordered heap the great engine, its mighty breath stilled forever; its ponderous wheels bent and twisted as though made of fine wire, while a huge bowlder of granite lying across the track, told how the accident had occurred. It had been loosened from its bed far up the mountain side, and the course it had taken could be plainly discerned by the broken trees, and the freshly disturbed earth left in its track.
“A torrent of water swelled by the heavy rains of the night before into an angry turbulent stream, rushed down the mountain and away across the track, as if bent upon an evil mission instigated by some wild spirit of the forest.
“The grandeur of the scene impressed me. For a moment I seemed to realize how small an atom was my human frame compared to all these things made by a wise ruler to complete the universe. With one sweep of His omnipotent hand He could slay the world.
“Then why should I undertake with my baby brain, to perfect a scheme, when by merely laying one finger upon it He could bring ruin and disgrace to me. Only for a moment had I these thoughts, then with an impatient gesture I brushed my forehead as if by so doing I could cast all doubt and fear to the winds, and I said: Why hesitate? I have gone too far now to turn back. It is sink or swim with me. Let fate do its work.
“I had purposely turned in another direction from where I knew lay the body of John Saxon and that of his beautiful bride. In a few moments I heard the doctor’s voice calling me. I turned slowly. Even now, that I had determined nothing should stop me from doing my will, the thought of recognizing these people as friends, who were total strangers, and who could not rise to denounce me, made a chilly uncomfortable feeling creep over me. What if they too should come to life like Roger, and then with a nervous laugh at myidiotic thoughts, I strode toward where the doctor was kneeling, and bent over the figure which he had reverently uncovered. It is she, I said. How beautiful she looks even in death. I unclasped the chain from about her neck and opened the locket. See, I cried, this is John, her husband. He, too, is dead, or else he would have found her ere this. Let us continue our search. With a prayer to the Holy Virgin Mary the doctor covered the sweet face with its staring eyes, and soon he found the shapeless trunk and began searching the pockets. I busied myself over the body of a man some distance away, until I heard an exclamation from the doctor. ‘I have found him,’ he cried. ‘Poor man! Poor girl! It is as you have stated. They were only just married.’ He showed the papers. ‘What will you do?’ he asked. I will take their bodies home, I replied. It is all I can do.”
Andrew paused as he saw the look of horror on the doctor’s face. “Yes, I know of what you are thinking,” he continued. “I separated them. The sweet young wife sleeps under a willow tree, in an old church-yard, many miles from here. Her childhood home. She was an orphan, with no near relatives. No one took the trouble to inquire into the matter. I told the story of the accident to the good people of the village, a little hamlet numbering twenty-five souls, all told. There was a simple burial service, and everybody supposed that husband and wife were buried in one grave, and that one casket contained them both. The body of John Saxon lies here at ‘The Gables,’ hardly a stone’s throw away. His father was a seafaring man, a ne’er-do-well when on shore. His mother had died in the townhouse. No danger ofhimever being inquired for; you see I was careful to get the exact history of these two persons who served my evil purpose so well. Will God forgive me, think you, for separating husbands from wives? First, John Saxon, from his blue-eyed bride; next, Victoria, from my own brother? Oh, God! my sin is grievous.”
Andrew covered his face, and sobs, terrible to hear, burst from his lips. The doctor, although loathing this man’s sin, could but pity him. His grief was sincere. His repentance genuine.
“There has been no sin so great, but that God, in Hismercy, has forgiven it,” he said, stroking the invalid’s trembling hands. “He divines the secret workings of your heart. He knows that you are repentant.”
“Ah, yes,” sighed Andrew. “Repentant when too late. God’s patience cannot last forever. There is a limit even toHisforbearance. Think of the years in which I have gone on sinning, even when my conscience pricked me every moment, and when I knew what the end must be.”
“Then you have suffered the throes of remorse?” questioned the doctor.
“Remorse!” echoed the sick man, beating his breast with his clenched hands, “Remorse! Oh, could I describe to you the workings of my brain, the tumults in my heart, which tortured me through the long hours of the night, while those I loved and had sinned for, were sleeping. This last year has been to me hourly a hideous dream, from which I feared to awaken. I knew that my thoughts were driving me mad. I did not care. My only hope was, that if I went mad, I might be removed to where Victoria could not reproach me with her sad face, when she at last should know the truth. Doctor, that woman is Divine. She is not of this earth. I adore her more, if it be possible, than before my sickness, and I curse myself when I think that, upon her dear head must fall all the results of my wrong-doing. The world is harsh. When it knows my story it will not spare her. She and the child will be the greater sufferers. I would willingly be torn limb from limb, I would die a thousand deaths, if it could be the means of sparing them from the jibes and taunts of a cruel, heartless world.”
Victoria had listened to Andrew silently but not without emotion. She had followed his every gesture with eyes of love. She heard the confession of his guilt, but her heart did not harden toward him. It only grew more tender. His sin had been great, but now he was repentant. Through his love for her had he sinned. She would show him how much she was now willing to sacrifice for his sake, to shield him from the world. She stepped from the curtain which had concealed her, and rapidly approaching the bedside she threw herself upon her knees, and taking Andrew’s hands in her own kissed them passionately.
“The world shall never know your secret, my darling,” she cried. “What good can it bring to the poor imbecile up stairs to publish abroad your wrong doing?Weonly are concerned. Let us live as before, more secluded if you will, only wemust notbe separated. I cannot consent to that. To see you behind prison bars, the subject of ridicule from coarse, low people who could never understand the motive of your crime, would kill me. And Mary, our sweet little blossom, could never recover from the ignominy if the finger of scorn should be pointed at her, and she should be called—a convict’s daughter, and—and a—” Victoria hesitated, and then with a low sob hid her face in the bed clothing. She could not pronounce the word which might needlessly wound Andrew, and which so cruelly branded her little innocent child.
Andrew stroked the bowed head slowly, softly, tenderly. He had not known until now the depth and passion of this woman’s nature. It was a revelation to him. She was all his own. Though prison bars might separate their bodies no power was strong enough to divide their hearts. He looked at the doctor who was sheepishly wiping his eyes. “The way of the transgressor is hard,” he said, still stroking Victoria’s head. “My path of duty lies open before me. I must not swerve from it. Victoria, my beloved, I can bear my ignominy now that I have the full assurance of your love. What matters it though prison bars separate us? What care I for the world’s derision and contempt, so long as I know that the woman for whom I have sinned loves me, and has freely forgiven me. No sacrifice seems, too great for me to perform, and justice though tardy must be accorded my poor brother. My eyes are open to my sin. I cannot drag you into any further depths of wrong doing. I have worshipped you as an angelic being; I would not now find too much of woman in your nature. To me you must remain as you have always been, pure, and moulded in finer clay than your sister women. Now that you know my crime you must not share it. We could never feel else than degraded though nobody but ourselves be the wiser.”
Victoria arose from her knees and kissed Andrew upon his forhead. “As you will,” she said, striving forcomposure. “Though my heart should break, I will do as you shall direct.”
The doctor, who had kept silent, now spoke. His words astonished both Victoria and Andrew.
“In a certain sense Mrs. Willing is right about this matter,” he said gravely. “Will you allow me to advise you, Mr. Willing?”
“Most certainly, doctor. Advice from you I should value above all other.”
“Then I say, as Mrs. Willing has said; keep this crime a secret.”
“What!” cried Andrew, starting from his pillow, “you, too, against me, when I had resolved to ease my conscience, to at last confess my sin to the world? Ah, doctor, I had counted on your strong arm to help me do what is right.”
“But you do not grasp my meaning, my dear Andrew. I do not mean to infer you shall not suffer. I will try to explain my meaning by asking you a question. Which had you rather do? Confess your crime to a magistrate, and receive the penalty which would probably be twenty years in prison, with the privilege of seeing Victoria and your child once a month; or would you rather keep your crime a secret, but the penalty shall be a life-long separation from the woman whom you love? You shall never look upon her face again?”
Victoria started and looked almost savagely at the doctor; then turning, she put out her arms toward Andrew. Without a moments hesitation he answered, giving Victoria a loving glance: “I choose the prison cell with all its attendant privations. I cannot lose my angel forever.”
With a glad cry Victoria again sunk upon her knees.
“And now you show your selfishness,” said the doctor, sternly. “You think justice to your brother demands that you shall make known your crime. I say that it does not. Nothing will be gained by such a confession, but much will be lost. If Roger were in his right mind, I should say, ‘Do not hesitate a moment, but give yourself up at once;’ but now it matters not to the poor fellow what is done. His clouded brain can never recover.It is only a question of time with him. On the other hand see what misery and shame will descend upon your child by your confession. She it is who will be obliged to bear the brunt of all your wrong-doing. There is where your selfishness begins. You would hold up your child to the scorn of the world, for the mere pleasure of being able to see the woman you love for a few brief hours every month. You say you have repented, yet your repentance does not reach so far that you can bear an entire separation from the being whom you adore. Your confession will benefit nobody except a parcel of scandal mongers who will only say, ‘I told you so. Another rich man gone wrong.’ It is as Mrs. Willing says. They would not understand your motive in confessing your crime. What I propose is this. If your repentance is sincere, send Victoria away with her husband, for he has a prior right you must acknowledge. In administering to his comfort she will also learn to control her heart, and God will be with her. There is whereherduty lies. It seems hard, but nevertheless it is right. And you must stay here alone. Your duties all lie here. Your estates would go to ruin without you. Here is where you are needed. God requires you to confess your sin to Him in all repentance and sincerity, and then to lead a life showing your true repentance. Such a life, I believe, is required of you now. It will be full of self-denial for both of you; of fighting continually with the old Adam within you; but as Mary grows to womanhood, you can have the sweet knowledge of filial love which otherwise, if the truth were known to her, might have been turned to hatred. I do not believe God requires you to make your sin known to the world, and none but a religious crank or fanatic would advise you other than I have done.”
The doctor arose and took his hat. “I will leave you to think it over, my dear fellow. Your good sense will tell you to decide as I have advised. Mrs. Willing has already said she will abide by your decision.”
He shook the invalid’s hand, patted Victoria upon her bowed head as she still knelt beside the bed, and left the room.
No word was spoken between the two who were so near together, yet who felt themselves being separatedby a hand powerful, but tempered with a divine love and compassion most soothing to their bleeding hearts.
At last Andrew raised Victoria’s head and looked into the sad depths of her tearful eyes. Then gathering her to his breast with all his feeble strength, he placed his lips to her’s in a long caress which she felt to be one of renunciation for all time.