“I will take care of these,” said he, in a voice of tenderness, as he placed the notes in his pocket. “But, oh, God in Heaven! What shall I say to my beloved wife?”
“You believe me, John?” Virginia cried, in a tone of heartfelt thankfulness—her eager gaze fastened on his face. Her pleading touched him deeply. He took her in his arms, gently kissed her fair brow, and in a broken voice, said:
“Virginia, we are only human, with human failings; but in your honor and truthfulness of this dreadful affair, God bear witness to my faith!”
A devout joy flushed the pallor of her beautiful face, as she responded with a thankful heart, purified as gold with fire: “My prayers are answered, and my brother is himself again.”
“Yes, Virginia,” he continued, with the fervor of family pride, as he thought of the part she had taken in Dorothy’s rescue—“And in that book which shall be opened in the last great day, there will be pointed out by the Recording Angel—my sister’s atonement.” Then, without releasing her, he went on in an altered, anxious voice: “And my darling wife! Where is Constance? Tell me, Virginia, that I may go to her at once and plead her forgiveness.”
“What shall I say?” she whispered, awestruck, caught in a moment of forgetfulness of the woman who suffered for it all. “I must not tell him where she is. No, no, no! Not yet!” and she battled to subdue her agitation that she might invent some plea to postpone the meeting with his wife. “Not now; not now, John,” and drawing away from him, unconsciously put out her hand as though to ward off some impending evil.
“Why not?” he asked in surprised tones. “I must see her. I must know where my darling wife is at once!”
A flash of pain shot athwart the girl’s features as she muttered under her breath: “Oh, dear! What shall I tell him, what shall I say? What shall I do now?”
Thorpe hastily stepped forward to her assistance, and with concern in his voice, said: “Virginia, you are ill!”
“Let me rest for a moment or two”—trying her utmost to appear unperturbed, and as she sank on a bench, continued brokenly: “I shall be all right presently. The long walk—the terrible strain”—