CHAPTER VI.
The next few days were quiet dreamy ones to the invalid. Not much conversation was allowed in his room, and he did not seem inclined to talk. To watch Victoria as she glided silently about performing the usual duties, was happiness enough for him. There was a world of enduring patient love in his eyes, as they followed her every motion. His thoughts were always of her. “Was there ever woman so noble, so forgiving? If he had loved her in the days gone by, what wasthisfeeling which now thrilled him whenever she laved his face or touched his hand? It was as if the hand of an angel had been laid upon him.” He felt purified, exhilarated, free from all sin. Her calm spirituelle face soothed and quieted him. He longed to utter what was in his mind; to tell her how sanctified she had become to him; to pray to her as a Catholic prays to his patron saint. Knowing his sin, knowing how he had deceived her, she did not turn from him in scorn and loathing, as any other woman would have done, but true to herself, compassionate, forgiving, she had stayed by him tenderly nursing him back to health and strength. He knew that to her never-ceasing care he owed his life, but not for a moment was he vain enough to attribute it to love for him. The love which was just springing up in her heart like a tender flower, must have been ruthlessly crushed when she knew of his base deception which had continued for so many years, and now that she knew Roger was living, her love would again return to him and rightfully, Andrew did not rebel at the thought. There could never be any more hatred for Roger in his heart. The noble conduct of this more than noble woman had forever dispelled it. Without a murmur he would resign her, content in knowing that she had forgiven him; content to worship her from afar, living over again the fragrant past, taking no hopes for the future for he could see none. The doctor had said that Roger’s days were numbered, but what of that, Victoriawould never return to him who had ruined her life. Ah, no, her forebearance could not be expected to extend that far, and somehow the thought did not affect him, as it would have done before this sickness. His love for Victoria was purer, of a higher order than before. She seemed no longer a mortal but a being most celestial, and he would not have been at all surprised had he seen wings suddenly appear upon her form and Victoria soaring away into space far, far beyond his gaze.
Victoria was conscious of Andrew’s eyes following her every motion, and she strove to curb the strong passion which at times threatened to master her. She longed to cast herself beside him; to confess the overpowering influence which drew her to him despite her will; to tell him that now, God pity her, she loved him with a strength, a passion, which was as deep as his own, and that the man upstairs, who should be all in all to her, was nothing, nothing, nor ever would be. She cared for him less than she cared for Mary, and in the same maternal way; but for the man who had sinned so grievously against her and her child; who had not hesitated to commit a crime which if known meant years of imprisonment; for this man, guilty though he might be, she was willing to suffer anything, rather than be separated from him. And whywasit so? That she was unable to explain even to herself. She only knew that so it was, incredible as it might seem to anybody who had never been tempted in like manner. To save the man she loved she resolved to keep Roger in imprisonment, whatever might be the cost, and to let things go on as before. She felt a satisfaction in the thought that in so doing her guilt would be equal to Andrew’s. Therefore one could not reproach the other.
Few words had passed between them. Once when she had been feeding to him some gruel, he had kissed her hand and murmured: “My angel,” in tones which stirred every fiber in her heart, and set them quivering. She had not answered him. She could not. If she had, such a torrent of burning words would have escaped her, that in his weak state might have proved disastrous. To kill him now would be to kill herself, so she veiled her eyes when obliged to approach him, and her calm, low voice, and rather cold features, told not of the storm-tossed soul within the fragile frame.
Mary had been allowed in for a few moments each day, but her incessant chattering wearied Andrew. He loved his child. The sight of her glad face brought him new life. Her kisses were like strong wine, yet in a short time he tired of her, and was glad when the door closed upon her, and he was once more left alone with his waking dreams, wherein Victoria, “his angel,” was always the central figure.
Despite Victoria’s entreaties the doctor had gone back to his cheerless bachelor quarters which he shared with a younger colleague who had taken the doctor’s patients during Andrew’s illness. Back to a landlady who resembled a feather pillow tied tightly around the middle; a landlady who wore a false front many shades darker than the back hair; who sniffed when she poured his tea, sniffed when she passed him an article of food, and who had a very annoying habit of inquiring after each and every patient by name, and of enumerating their several ailments for the benefit of the other boarders who did not know, and who did not care to know, but who bore the infliction with martyr-like stoicism. From what source she gathered her information was a mystery to the doctor who was most reticent in all things pertaining to his profession. He would have left her establishment long ago only it was “Hobson’s choice” with him. There was none other. She was sole monarch over the stomachs of all the homeless men in Fort Henry, and if any dared to grumble at the food placed before him she could afford to toss her head and tell him, “if he didn’t like it he knew what he could do,” which was just what the hapless individual did not know. The doctor never grumbled over the culinary arrangements. He was never known to perpetrate but one joke on the good woman, which, although hugely enjoyed by those who heard it, fell far short of the mark shot at.
One day the doctor came to his dinner with a ravenous appetite. He had been in the saddle since daybreak without a mouthful. A brown substance was set before him which he eyed rather suspiciously. At last hunger conquered suspicion, and he took a mouthful. He chewed and chewed, and finally with a gulp which brought the tears to his eyes, he swallowed it. The few who had suffered before him were watching silently.
“What do you call this dish?” he gravely asked his landlady.
“Fried sole,” she replied, busy with the cups and saucers.
“Ah?” he exclaimed, quickly. “What shoemaker do you deal with? I must know him.”
A general laugh followed his query. Only the landlady maintained her gravity. She had heard nothing to laugh at. “I most generally trade at the sign of the boot,” she said, casting a withering look around the table, but which changed to a smile as she looked at the doctor. “I never had cause to complain, although I will say that my last congress gaiters ain’t goin’ to wear near so good as t’others, but on the whole I’d advise you to go there, doctor. They’ll treat you well, especially if you have corns.”
The doctor looked helplessly at his companions and then collapsed. His first and only joke had been a failure. “Requiescat in pace,” he murmured, which quotation caused another outbreak among the diners, but they were quickly frowned down by the austere mistress. She had no affinity between fried soles and her shoemaker, but shedidlook with approving eyes at the doctor, who had noticed her feet enough to ask what shoemaker she employed. “He was a dear man, and near her own age; could it be possible he was thinking of matrimony, and with her? Well, if so, he should be rewarded. She had saved a tidy little sum since Samuel died,” (Samuel being the dear departed, of course), “and it should be all his, every cent. He should see how generous she could be. The dear, good man.”
After this she watched over his going out and coming in with almost wisely solicitude. She managed by hook or by crook to know who were his patients, and what their ailments. It necessitated a reckless expenditure of coppers among the street gamin, but it might pay her in the end, so she thought. He could not very well ignore her, when he found how anxiously she studied his every interest. She even went so far as to purloin several medical works from his study in his absence, so as to read up against the time when she might have to entertain him whole evenings in her parlor, which until now had been sacred to Sundays and “other high days,” as she called them. No boarder’s profane foot had everdesecrated the jaundiced carpet, whose flaring green and yellow figures, if made in our day and time, would have driven Oscar Wilde much wilder. The stiff, horsehair chairs were miracles in their way. It required courage and a certain amount of finesse on the part of a would-be occupant, ere he dared entrust himself to their embrace—a cold, slippery embrace, not at all reassuring. Even a huge oil painting of the dear, departed Samuel, taken in Highland costume, could not lend a festive aspect to the room. In all things but the carpet it was decidedly funereal. Into this “cheerful” retreat she ushered the doctor the night of his return from “The Five Gables.” She had literally killed the fatted calf in honor of his return. The supper-table groaned beneath the unwonted weight of so many delicacies heaped upon it. The widow was resplendent in a new false front whichcurled. She had given several shin-plasters for those curls, “something quite new,” the shopkeeper told her, “and recently adopted by the Queen of England.” It was not without some misgivings that she indulged in this reckless piece of extravagance, but there was much at stake. Those curls might be the means of a proposal. “Mrs. Dr. Arthur Harrison.” The name was magical. Without so much as a sigh she counted out the necessary amount, and the curls were hers.
She made the chore boy saw a new board for her stays, which she laced until every breath she drew was a sigh. She could not even sniff without a pang in her bosom, and after she was dressed she ordered the maid of all work to go around her with a tape line. She smiled, although it was a mighty effort, when she heard the girl exclaim: “Thirty-four inches, Mistress Jackson; that’s two inches less than last week, and three inches less than the week before.” What a sacrifice was she offering upon the altar of her love. She met the doctor with a fat smile, which she meant should be captivating, but which only served to make her ridiculous. The doctor thought as he went slowly to his study: “I wonder what has come over the old lass. She seems a good deal spruced up. It must be that she is on the war path for a successor to the dear departed. Well I wish her all the good fortune that may attend her. Fortune is a fickle jade.”
He did not dream that all these demonstrations were in honor of his modest self.
The boarders looked at one another as their landlady with a sweet smile, asked the doctor to accompany her to the parlor as they left the table. What was about to happen? Were the skies going to fall? Were their eyes to behold that sacred veil, i. e.—the door—lifted so that at last they might gaze on what lay beyond? Oh, no, the landlady had other plans. As the doctor could hardly refuse her invitation this first evening of his return, he acquiesced with as good grace as possible.
Taking his arm and giggling like a girl of sixteen, she swept him out of the door on to the veranda, and unlocking the big green door, ushered him with an awed manner into the sacred room. The semi-twilight which struggled through the drawn shades, was embarrassing in the extreme to the doctor, who was all at sea as to his surroundings. He dared not advance a step in any direction, for huge shapes loomed up before him, the likeness of which he could only imagine. Vague feelings of mistrust as to his landlady’s designs began to steal upon him. He wished he had not come. She still held his arm, and she now gave it a little squeeze which made him feel chilly. “Horrors! what was this dreadful woman about to say or do?” He resolved to forestall her by saying: “Madam, take pity on my youth and innocence. I am an orphan, with neither father or mother, and two hundred miles from home,” but ere he could muster his courage she had left him, and in a moment he heard a flint struck, and she came toward him bearing a candelabra which she set upon a table. He could now see where he was, and as she said: “Be seated, doctor,” he gingerly consigned himself to one of the horsehair chairs, which looked to him like an evil spirit in disguise.
She seated herself in a similar chair, which she drew perilously near the doctor. He would have liked to move away, but he felt a slipperiness which warned him that any unguarded move might send him upon the floor. He raised his eyes to where hung the portrait of the dear departed. Here, at least, was a safe subject for conversation.
“A fine-looking man,” he said, nodding at the sepulchral face of Samuel.
“Ah, now, you be talking,” replied the widow, with a loud sniff, which caused her untold agony in the region of her waist. “Oh, he was a man whatwasa man, was that one. Never a word of fault about anything, just that even tempered was he. Give him his ale and a pipe, and you’d never know he was in the house. He was Scotch, you know.”
“I perceive that,” said the doctor, who felt in duty bound to say something.
“Yes,” continued the widow, “that picture I had copied. A man came along and stopped with me two weeks. He never paid me any board money. He hadn’t any money, so he said as how he would paint my Samuel’s picter. It’s as nateral as life, only one thing, Samuel had a cast in one eye. I often longed to know how he would look with two straight eyes, so I had him painted with both eyes alike. Oh, how I have admired that picter. It was the only thing I didn’t quite love him for, that squint. Sometimes it were worse nor others, and I know when he was courting me, I used to imagine he had one eye on me and tother on the timepiece, as if he was thinking about going every minute. He’s been dead seven year. I wore my bombazine as long as any widow ever does. I mourned him faithful. Folks ought not to gossip if I see fit to choose another.” She heaved a sigh and looked coyly at the doctor. “I have saved a good bit of money, and it’s all in stocks and bonds. This house and the next one is mine, clear from debt. I don’t owe anybody. I’m as good a match for a man of my age as you’ll find in a long run.”
The doctor fidgeted. “Was he listening to a proposal from this old busybody, who was old enough to be his mother, or she ought to be, if she wasn’t? Would nothing help him out of this dilemma?” In his uneasiness he had been perilously nearing the edge of the chair, but he was unaware of his peril. He was trying to conjure some excuse for leaving the room without telling a down-right lie. “My dear,”—he was about to add “madam,” but his evil star was just then in the ascendant, for, without warning, before he could regain his balance, the treacherous horsehair deposited him at the widow’s feet. She did not wait for him to finish his sentence. The sight of him upon his knees before her, where she had so often seen him in her dreams, was toomuch, and clasping him around the neck, she held his head tightly against her expansive breast, while she sobbed: “Yes, I know I am your dear. Oh, Arthur! how happy we shall be! I’ll turn all the boarders away, and we’ll live here all alone, just you and me, ducky.”
The doctor struggled to free himself. He felt as if he was slowly suffocating, but she held him fast.
“Oh, how good it seems to again hold a dear head like this,” she continued, patting him heavily. The doctor groaned.
“And don’t my petsie, wetsie, feel good?” she asked, kissing the bald spot on his head. “Is he sick? Oh, I am such a wonderful nurse. Where is the pain, ducky?”
She let up on her hold of him for a moment, and he partly struggled to his feet, but she caught him again.
“Let me go, woman!” he roared, “you must be mad, stark, staring mad! Marry you? Why, I’d poison you within a week.”
“Woman!” she gasped, “oh, that I should live to hear my Arthur call me woman!” She made one grand effort to hold him, but there came a sound like the distant report of a pistol; with a shriek she loosened her arms, and the doctor ignominiously fled. Fled out through the green door, leaving it open behind him; around the porch, into his study, where he bolted and barred the doors and windows. Then he sat down and laughed. Laughed until the tears came at the spectacle he must have presented upon his knees, with the widow hugging him for dear life.
To what good angel he owed his happy release he knew not, but the widow knew only too well. The long suffering stays at last rebelled, and at the most critical moment revenged themselves by bursting.
So ended the widow’s courtship. She sat long that night gazing at Samuel’s portrait. “To think he should have witnessed my humiliation,” she murmured, and then to her excited fancy, one eye began to take on that leer which had been so distasteful to her, and sighing heavily, she arose and turned the picture toward the wall.
CHAPTER VII.
The next morning the doctor removed his goods and chattels to “The Five Gables,” and took an office on the principal street, getting his meals wherever hunger overtook him. He knew that he was welcome to stay at “The Gables” forever if he liked, but he did not care to. He was conscious of his own strength. He knew that he could live in the same house with Victoria and never tell her of his love, but in some way she might discover it, and then all intercourse, however Platonic, would be at an end between them. She would despise him for a false friend. She could never be made to see his love in the same light with which he received it, so it were best that he should go to “The Gables” as little as possible.
Victoria enjoyed hugely the widow’s proposal, and insisted upon his telling it to Andrew. Perhaps it might rouse him from the strange, almost comatose state which had seemed to hold him since he had regained his senses. To lie and dream with his eyes wide open, following Victoria as she moved about the room, was all he had cared to do. He did not often speak, and Victoria grew alarmed at this lethargy, which was so foreign to his nature; so the doctor, one day, at Victoria’s bidding, sat down beside the bed and told Andrew of his recent adventure, making it as ridiculous as possible, thereby trying to win from his patient a hearty laugh, but Andrew only smiled dreamily, and watched Victoria as she arranged some flowers in a vase, and placed them near his bedside.
“She is the fairest flower of them all,” the doctor heard him murmur. “There is not one to compare with her. No, not one.”
The physician saw that Andrew’s mind had not been on the story he had just related. In all probability he had not heard a word of it, and the doctor formed a resolution which he immediately put into execution. He asked, abruptly, keeping his eye on the invalid’s face:“Have you thought what the future has in store for you, Andrew?”
The deep-sunken eyes turned inquiringly upon the doctor.
“The future, the future,” he repeated, “What have I to do with the future? There is no future for me.”
“Then you do not care what becomes of you? You are not desirous of living?”
For the first time Andrew evinced some interest, and there was a flash of the old imperiousness in his manner as he replied: “Who would wish to live if they knew a prison cell stood waiting to receive them? Ask a bird which is suddenly caught and caged after having been free all its life; ask it if it chooses freedom with death as a penalty, or long life behind prison bars, though gilded? It will soon answer by beating its little life out against the cruel wires which cage it.”
He stopped and caught his breath with almost a sob. Victoria turned surprised to hear his voice which rang out strong and almost as firm as of old.
“Then you acknowledge your crime, and are willing to suffer the penalty?” asked the doctor bending forward.
Andrew’s eyes sought Victoria as if he were seeking strength. “No punishment which man can inflict will exceed that which God has already given. Victoria and the child are lost to me forever, and it is just. My angel who is so pure, so spotless, will return to the man she loves. What matters the tortures inflicted upon this body by a cruel world, I shall not heed them. The heart only can feel, and my heart is gone from me, gone into the keeping of my angel where it will be safe from all sin. Everything she touches becomes pure, you know.”
Victoria was weeping. She could not listen unmoved to the words which told of the complete change in this man’s nature. He was willing to resign both her and Mary without a struggle, knowing the prior right of the man up stairs. Although he was little better than an imbecile. She knew he loved her still; that their separation would be his death blow; that he could not live without her. She crossed the room rapidly, and knelt beside the bed taking Andrew’s wondering face in her hands and kissing it passionately. “I love butyou, my darling. You have sinned against me grievously, but I condone everything, everything, you sinned through love of me. Much can be forgiven you, because you have loved much.”
Andrew’s face was a study. The glad tidings that at last Victoria loved him with a passion equal to his own came like a shock to him. He was stunned, bewildered, and allowed her to caress him without giving any in return. To him there could come no greater joy than this. She loved him, and her love had withstood the knowledge of his crimes. With a cry he raised his arms and drew her to him as well as his feeble strength would permit. He forgot but that she was in reality his wife, and pressed his lips to hers in a long caress which seemed to draw her very soul from her body.
The doctor softly left the room. Their confidences were not for stranger’s ears, and at this moment he felt a stranger. He realized that he had no part or parcel with the two whom he had left. He felt no jealousy toward Andrew because of the love Victoria bore him. Only a sorrow that all this trouble and heartache must come to the woman whom he would have shielded from every care if God had so willed it, and for her sake he would also have shielded Andrew. He saw nothing wrong in this love which each bore the other. For years they had lived in close companionship. The holiest relation had been sanctified by a precious gift from God, little Mary. True the world would not look upon Andrew’s faults and crimes through eyes of love. There would be nothing but gravest censure and perhaps a prison cell for him. And what a life for Victoria tenderly reared and nurtured. Her sensitive nature would soon droop and die under the world’s cruel darts leveled at her and the child, for what person would believe but that she had been cognizant of the gabled room, and its imbecile occupant all these years? And little Mary, upon whose innocent head must fall her father’s sin, and who in time would be the greatest sufferer? Was it necessary to bawl from the housetops that the heir to “The Five Gables” still lived, and that a stain rested upon Mary’s fair name? No, the doctor thought not. If Roger had even one symptom of returning reason, then it would be a crime to conceal his existence, but he would never recover. The doctor had thoroughly examinedhim and found the brain was irreparably injured, probably in the railway accident in which as every one supposed he had lost his life. He might live for years, but his mental condition would remain unchanged. Then why reveal what would affect the lives of so many beings when concealment would harm nobody.
The doctor pondered long over this knotty problem. He went over and over again every little detail bearing upon the matter, and finally concluded to give his advice, if asked, and Victoria should decide as she saw fit.
Meanwhile, the first ecstacy over, Andrew, with his face still pressed against Victoria’s, said: “What happiness is mine, dear one! With the sweet knowledge of your love to strengthen me, I can battle with the world. What matters it though every hand be against me, if my Victoria is for me?”
She did not answer him. She was content to lie with her arms about him, her cheek resting upon his. To hear his voice, weak, but, oh, so dear, speaking to her in accents of deepest love, was peace to her tired heart—such peace as she had never known.
Presently he spoke again. “How long have I been ill, Victoria?”
“Do not ask me,” she answered. “I have taken no note of the flight of time. To me it has seemed an eternity. I have prayed that you might die, and God, in His great goodness and mercy heeded not my sinful prayer, but stayed His hand, and gave you back to me from the very portals of the grave.”
“Why did you pray for my death, Victoria?”
“So that you might be released from all responsibility attending your wrong-doing. So that Mary might have been shielded from disgrace. So that I, too, might die with you, for I could not have lived without you. My love for you has grown until it is stronger than Death; stronger than prison bars, even. It shall compass you round and protect you from all danger.”
He raised his hand and laid it upon her head caressingly. How her words revealed her innermost soul to him! Once he would have risked his life to hear her utter these sweet words which now she lavished upon him with frank abandonment, and which were characteristic of a true woman’s nature, which, when onceshe loves, flings prudence to the winds and gives to the object of her adoration the best of her life. So it was with Victoria. Her love had been of slow growth, and, perhaps might never have been revealed to her in its entirety but for the sickness of Andrew. No other thoughts filled her heart but that of sacrificing herself for him and of sparing him every annoyance.
As Andrew caressed her hair, running his fingers through the little curls which clustered about her forehead, she felt a drowsiness steal over her, an exquisite languor which quieted her nerves, and soon threw her into a restful sleep. Andrew watched her with convicting emotions. The knowledge of her love for him had come to him with such suddenness as almost to overwhelm him. He had schooled himself to the belief that Victoria still loved Roger; that she would evince a just hatred for himself when he should have sufficiently recovered, and that a felon’s cell awaited him, where he would be shut away forever from the sight of his child. Contrary to his imaginings, she had showered the tenderest caresses upon him, and had told him that she would never leave him, but would follow him to a prison cell if need be. All this was very delightful to Andrew, but, nevertheless, he saw his duty as plainly now as he had seen it at first. Although his body had been weak since his recovery, his brain had been all the more active and God had pointed out his duty in a way he could not fail to see. Restitution, although coming late, must be made to the poor imbecile who had been so greatly wronged. Sweet as he knew Victoria’s love promised to be for himself, she must return to Roger though it broke her heart, while he gave himself up to the authorities, to be dealt with as they should determine. The more harsh their treatment, the better it would suit him.
Victoria stirred uneasily, and threw her hand over Andrew so that it rested upon his mouth. He kissed it sorrowfully, reverently, as though in that kiss he was relinquishing his every hope; and as she opened her eyes, he closed his own and feigned sleep. She called his name softly, but he made no motion, and, thinking him asleep, she quietly arose and left the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
Andrew improved rapidly. In a few days he was able to sit up and he ate ravenously. The doctor came but seldom now. He had not asked again what hopes Andrew had of the future, but Andrew had not forgotten, and one day when the doctor was about to leave Andrew raised his hand and begged him to stay for a time as he had much to say.
“Through your kindness to me and mine,” he said, “you have become one of the family. A trusted friend. As such I wish to confide in you. To make you my confessor as it were. I am strong now, and I feel I ought not to defer this another hour.”
“I am at your service,” replied the doctor gravely, as he removed his top coat and hat. “Anything which I can do for you will be done cheerfully, and conscientiously.”
“I know it,” cried Andrew clasping the doctor’s hand which was held out to him. “I know it. This household would have been like a rudderless ship without you. I must have an adviser, who shall I turn to but you?”
He held the doctor’s hand tightly for a moment, and then dropping it, said: “I will commence my confession dating from the time of Victoria’s visit to my mother. I did not love her at first, but soon I began to divine her lovely character; to admire her girlish beauty which at first I could not see. It was not long ere I noticed her dislike for myself. Her evident avoidance of my society. The more she shunned me the fiercer grew my passion, yet in her presence I grew timid, and dared not avow my love. Although I knew I stood not the ghost of a chance of winning her love, I was insanely jealous of anybody or anything for whom she evinced the least show of affection. My brother Roger was away from home all this time, and suddenly there came news of an accident which had befallen him. My mother and myself went to him at once, and as soon ashe was able to travel we brought him home. That night my passion overpowered me, and I followed Victoria as she was leaving the house for a stroll, and frightened her by my vehemence, and she fled from me. Her coldness only fired my ardor, and finding her a good subject for mesmerism, I tried my power upon her, brute that I was, and subjected her to my will. I forced from her the caresses I could not gain any other way. Yes, you may look at me with horror, doctor, but I am telling you the truth. I was a miserable sneaking coward, and I do not wish to spare myself. I will conceal nothing. You know what a handsome fellow Roger was, and what a taking way he had with women? Well, notwithstanding his blindness, Victoria fell in love with him, and he with her. When her mother, Lady Vale, found it out she was furious, and was for packing Victoria off to England without delay. Her opposition only hastened the marriage, for taking my mother who was on their side, they repaired to the judge the very next day and came home man and wife. I had not a suspicion of what had happened until I heard the servants talking it over. I went to my mother and demanded an explanation. What I said I do not recollect, but I know that in my blind unreasoning passion, I said words which killed my mother as surely as though I had pierced her heart with a knife.”
The doctor started and looked hard at Andrew. “Then you were the cause of Mrs. Willing’s sudden death? I was exceedingly puzzled at the time to determine it.”
“Yes,” replied Andrew bitterly. “To all my other crimes can be added that of matricide. At the time I did not care if everybody had died excepting Victoria and myself, but in the years which followed I sincerely repented of my brutal anger toward my mother, who, if she loved Roger more than me, loved me far better than I deserved; but, like all murderers, my repentance came too late.”
“You do not speak of yourself,” interrupted the doctor. “You had no idea of the effect your hasty words would have upon your mother?”
“I certainly did not, but, nevertheless, her death lies on my conscience, and a life-time of repentance cannot wipe out the horror of it from my heart. What next Ihave to tell you is terrible. It will show you the blackness of a human heart, the unnatural hatred for a twin brother. I could not bear him to come near me. When I saw him caressing Victoria, I could hardly restrain myself from springing at his throat and choking the life out of him. My brain was busy devising plans whereby I might separate them without committing actual murder. I will not say but what I had murder in my heart, but I had not reached that degree wherein I could muster courage and commit the crime. Nearly a year had elapsed, when one day Victoria saw a notice of a famous oculist who had been performing some remarkable cures on people supposed to be blind. She was all enthusiasm at once. I must take Roger without delay and visit the oculist. She was in too delicate health at the time to think of accompanying us. We started, Roger in a state of excitement and joy at Victoria’s last cheering words, that when they next met his eyes would behold her face, and I with black thoughts of evil in my heart toward my brother, for I had resolved that if he regained his eyesight he would not return alive. We traveled by easy coaches until we reached the railroad, and on the third day after leaving home we boarded the train which was to bear us to New York and to the Mecca of Roger’s hopes. I was moody and silent; Roger was hopeful and in gay spirits. He built castles of airy structure with lightning rapidity; he lived a score of future blissful years in less than as many hours, while the train sped on and on. I have often wondered since if the devil took an especial interest in that fateful journey. He must have done. As night approached there came signs of a tempest. Dark threatening clouds rolled up from the western horizon, only to meet the same rapidly approaching from the east. Zigzag flashes of lightning, wierd and grandly beautiful, lighted up for a brief moment the high mountain tops above us and the deep gorges far beneath. Our train seemed, when revealed thus, as if hung by a single thread between mountain and rushing torrent. If my mind had not been so occupied with my own develish thoughts, I might have enjoyed the magnificent spectacle, but the deep rolling thunder seemed only a fitting accompaniment to my mood, the one link needed to complete my gloomy chain of thought.Roger sat quietly in the seat ahead and seemed partly asleep, his head nodding to the motion of the car as it swayed to either side. We were going down a rather steep declivity. I could feel the car tremble like a living creature under the strain bearing upon it. I felt no fear; only an exhilaration born of the impending danger.”
“Would we were being borne to perdition,” I murmured. The thought was scarcely formed when with a shriek human in its agony, the engine gave a mighty bound, there was a sound as if heaven and earth must have come together, and I knew no more until I awoke to find the sun shining upon a scene of ruin and disaster. Terrible groans mingled with curses and with prayers to God, greeted my ears on every side. My body felt benumbed; paralyzed. I raised my head and saw that my lower limbs were firmly wedged between heavy timbers, while my hands were cut and bleeding. My first thought was of Roger. I called his name. No one answered, although I could hear subdued voices in tones of pity, trying to administer words of comfort to the suffering ones around me. Presently a hooded form bent over me. I raised my eyes.
“‘The Virgin Mary be praised,’ I heard a voice exclaim. ‘This man still lives. Help, good comrades! Leave the dead and come to the assistance of the living.’ As in a dream I felt hands working over me, and as the heavy timbers were drawn from my benumbed limbs, and once more the life blood began to flow, the exquisite torture was more than I could endure, and again I fainted.”
Andrew stopped while the doctor wiped the moisture from his brow.
“Do not continue,” said the doctor kindly. “Defer your tale for a time. You are weary. It is too much for you.”
“No, no!” cried Andrew. “Let me unburden my soul. Oh, doctor! if you only knew how I have suffered in my mind. What struggles have been mine, you would pity me, guilty wretch, though I be.”
“I know,” replied the doctor soothingly. “Nothing but sincerest pity fills my heart for you, Andrew. To err is human. You are but human. At that time you had no strong belief in Christ as a merciful mediatorbetween spiritual and temporal things. No light had ever been given you.”
“Ah, no!” sighed Andrew. “I scoffed at God. The devil only controlled my heart.”
“To believe in the power of one, you must acknowledge the supremacy of the other,” said the doctor gravely. “To refute God, means renouncing the existence of an evil being. To believe there is a devil, one must also believe there is a God.”
“True! true,” cried Andrew. “I know it now. Then I did not care to become acquainted with anything divine. My arguments against my Maker were such as an untaught child might have used; senseless and without reason. All things which stood in the path between Victoria and myself must be swept aside, no matter how. She was my religion, my God. To worship before her at her feet; to die there looking up into the sweet, spirituelle face; that alone could bring peace to my soul.”
Victoria had come softly into the room without the knowledge of the invalid, and standing out of his sight had heard these last passionate words of a despairing heart. She wept. How gladly would she have taken his head upon her breast, and with sweet, womanly compassion have eased his troubled soul, but he had chosen to confide in some one not so near or so dear. She must be content to watch, and wait and listen, while he told to another the tale of his sin and shame. She watched the doctor, as with all the tenderness of a woman he bent over the invalid, smoothing the hair from his forehead. How thankful to God she ought to feel for this friend raised up so opportunely for them in their distress, yet she was ashamed that a slight feeling of jealousy should mingle with her thankfulness. A jealousy born of the great love which filled her heart, for the man who had so grievously wronged her, yet who had loved her as few women are ever loved. She saw the mighty struggle which was going on within him, photographed upon his face. Great drops of moisture rolled from his brow. His lips trembled with the excess of his emotion. He grasped the doctor’s hand and gazed longingly, wistfully at him.
“Doctor will you believe what I am about to tell you? Will you cast all doubt from your mind that perhaps Iam trying to gain sympathy? Will you have faith in the word of a man who has sacrificed honor, truth, everything, to his own guilty desires?”
“I will,” replied the doctor gravely.
“I could not gain strength to confess if I saw a shadow of doubt upon your face,” continued Andrew. “If Victoria only believes also, I care not for the world’s opinion. Why should I? To briefly conclude my confession, I will say that when I again regained consciousness I found my limbs free, and in a few moments with the aid of my hooded Samaritan, I stood upon my feet, and walked. I told him of my brother, and we at once began our search. All rancor had fled from my heart. A fear that I might find him dead drove all other thoughts away. If at that moment I could have died to save my brother’s life, I would have done so, for Victoria’s sake. Presently we found him lying stiff and silent beside the body of a beautiful young woman. One arm was thrown about her as if for protection. Her head lay upon his breast. A smile, sweet and peaceful curved the corners of his mouth. Her eyes were wide open, and the fearful knowledge of approaching death had frozen in their depths. A jagged hole in each head, at almost the same spot, told the manner of their death. We decided that they were quite dead, and had been for hours. I sorrowed, perhaps not so much for Roger, he was infinitely better off, but for Victoria who just then was totally unfit to bear this extra burden. I told the circumstances to the monk who had assisted me, and we agreed that it was best to despatch two telegrams. The first one should say that Roger had met with a serious accident. After an interval of an hour we would send the next one announcing his death. We carried out that plan, the monk driving to the next town to send the telegrams, while, with the help of others, I carried Roger to the monastry, which was but a short distance away, there to remain until an undertaker should come to prepare the body for a safe removal to our home, for I knew full well Victoria would not consent to a burial so far away. While I was awaiting the arrival of an undertaker, I returned to the dreadful scene, which seemed to hold a fascination for me. The monks were still at work among the dead anddying. The body of the beautiful unknown lady had been covered by a blanket, awaiting the arrival of friends to identify her. Not far off I discovered a shapeless mass which had once been the form of a man. I stooped over it. Not a feature of the face could be discerned. The trunk had been twisted out of hardly any semblance to a human being, yet the clothing was intact. Only by searching the clothing could this body be identified. I knelt down and felt in the pockets of the coat, not without a sense of horror and repulsion at the eyrie task, but it had to be done. The monks were busy, I must be of all the use I could, recoil as I might. I drew forth a package of papers; one was a marriage certificate dated three days previous. The names were John Joseph Saxon and Julia Almira Brown. In a moment I saw, as in a vision, the beautiful face which now was covered by a coarse blanket, and I remembered where I had seen it before, bright with animation, and the voice full of girlish laughter, as she spoke to her companion, a man rather coarse looking, and several years her senior. I went swiftly back to the silent figure, and, turning away the blanket, took from the hand a new plain gold ring. It was as I had thought. She had been a bride hardly three days, for inscribed within the ring were the initials J. J. S. to J. A. B. To make the identification more sure, a locket hung from her neck by a chain, and inside the locket I found the picture of the man whose face I had connected with hers. Idealized somewhat, as most pictures are, but still I recognized it as belonging to him who had sat beside the beautiful girl, only two seats back of my own. On the other side of the locket the same bright laughing eyes looked out at me, as I remembered them the night before the accident; eyes which had never known sorrow or care, but which now stared up at me with that terrible look of horror frozen in their depths. Yes, these two belonged to each other. It now remained only for me to ascertain where they had come from, and who were their friends, so that they might know of their sad fate. As I again began to search the papers found on the body, I heard a voice at my side say ‘Are you the chap who brought a man’s body to the monastry a little while ago?’”
“Yes,” I replied. Something in his voice had sent anicy chill through my veins. “Well, the man’s alive, and the fathers sent me to fetch you.”
“Alive! I gasped. Roger alive! Man, you know not what you say!”
“‘Perhaps I don’t,’ he answered, with a grin, ‘but I guess the fathers do. They ought to know a dead man from a live one, they handle ’em often enough.’”
“I sat down upon the ground beside the body I had been searching, crushed by the sudden overthrow to all my plans. The first thought was one of gladness that my brother lived, but only for a moment did I rejoice. My good angel had hardly whispered ‘I am glad,’ ere the devil, with his evil tongue, banished the tender, pleading voice, and the wicked spirit within me which had lain dormant for a time, was aroused to action. I sprang to my feet, and started toward the monastery, leaving the man staring after me open-mouthed. I cannot tell you of the mad thoughts which whirled through my brain as I climbed the steep hill leading to the monastery. I was hardly conscious of them myself. Only one thought was uppermost. Roger must die if he still lived. He should not live to thwart me. I reached the monastery. A monk met me with a cordial smile.
“‘Good news, my friend,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Your brother lives, and there is cause for great hope.’”
“I dared not show my face. I buried it in my hands and whispered a curse. The monk placed his hand upon my bowed head, thinking, no doubt, that I was rejoicing, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness to Him who had seen fit to restore my brother. He led me to an iron cot around which several persons were gathered. ‘This is the injured man’s brother,’ I heard him say, and then as I uncovered my face, a darkness came before my eyes, and I felt myself reeling.
“When I came to myself, nobody was in the little cell but the good father, and a man who proved to be a physician. As I looked enquiringly at him he said: ‘You are all right now, my dear sir. The good news of your brother’s recovery came too suddenly. You have passed through exciting scenes to-day. No wonder they have affected you.’”
“The form on the cot lay still and without motion. Is that my brother? I asked. ‘Yes,’ replied the doctor, ‘and he will live, but I fear his brain has been injured.The skull is badly fractured, and I have been obliged to remove a small part of the brain. It may be weeks ere he is rational. He is blind, I see?’”
“Yes,” I answered mechanically, for I was hardly aware of the meaning of his last question. “His words ‘He will live’—and—‘It maybe weeks ere he is rational,’ were running through my head and repeating themselves again and again. Oh, to keep the knowledge of his being alive from Victoria until I knew how to act. The telegrams were by this time on the way, if not already received. I must either apprise her immediately of his recovery or keep it forever a secret, allowing her to believe him dead. But—she might insist upon his body being brought home, and in that case everything would be exposed. At that moment a horrible thought flashed upon me. I swear to you, doctor, that it had not occurred to me until then. Do you believe me?”
“I do,” solemnly answered the doctor, and the motionless woman sitting within the shadow of the window drapery, bowed her head as if she too had been implored to answer.
“I felt as if some unknown power controlled me,” continued Andrew. “I think from that hour I was never again quite myself. Evil whisperings sounded in my ears. My good angel came no more. My conscience slept. I looked at the doctor who was bending over Roger, his kindly face beaming with professional pride at having so skillfully saved a precious life.
“How soon can my brother be removed?” I asked.
“‘Not for some time, my dear sir,’ he answered. ‘Any undue excitement would result in immediate death. Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary. I shall be obliged to banish even you from this room for a few days. I have given him a strong opiate, and I shall keep him under the influence of it for at least a week.’ He will receive the best of care? I asked. The doctor bowed his head. ‘There are no better nurses in the world than these noble men whom you see about you. They have dedicated their lives to the wants of the needy, the sick and dying. They receive no monetary reward. They are not allowed to. The rich and poor are received on equal terms. A millionaire is treated no better than the strolling beggar. Each is given the best that there is to be had without athought from these men of being rewarded on this earth.’”
“I listened to the doctor’s words, meanwhile perfecting the horrible daring plot working actively in my brain. I had a friend aboard the train named John Saxon, I said, resolving at once to plunge into the whirlpool of crime, from which once entered upon there could be no escape. He was a dark-skinned man like myself, about thirty years of age. He was accompanied by his wife to whom he had just been married. In fact, they were on their bridal tour. She was a beautiful woman with laughing blue eyes. I have seen nothing of them. Can it be that perhaps they, too, have met with death?”
“The doctor looked up from Roger’s face which he had been studying.”
“‘Let us go down to the wreck and try to discover them dead or alive,’ he said. I will call one of the fathers to watch beside your brother. By the way, I do not know your name. I would like to make a memorandum of this case, and submit it to our medical journal.’”
“Williams,” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “Andrew Williams. My brother’s name is Roger.”
“‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, taking a small book from his pocket and jotting down what I had told him. ‘This case will be noted and watched with a great deal of interest. Now come, we will search for your friends. Pray God they may be alive and well.’”