She dwelt lovingly on the beloved syllables of the girl's name, and she closed her eyes for a moment to shut out the present, as the picture of the old happy days, when her darling lived with her, rose to her memory.
Seeing how weak she was and how weary were her tones, he mixed her a draught to ease the labouring of the strained heart and persuaded her to drink it.
"I feel better now," she said with a sigh of relief. "Doctor,"—she then continued quickly as if in fear that something might occur to prevent her from completing the long explanations which was before her. "Dr. Duncan, your wife has a secret—she cannot tell it you—it is this that troubles her."
"It is so."
"I will tell it to you."
He drew a chair to the table opposite to her, and leaning his head on his hand gazed into her face, as he listened to her narrative with so intense an attention, that he found himself holding his breath at times lest his own heart should beat too loudly, and he should miss one word.
Then she told him the whole strange story from the beginning to the end—of her scheme—its failure—of her love for Mary—of her intention to kill the girl—of her repentance at the last moment—of Susan and her crimes and plots—she omitted nothing.
When she had come to the end of it she said, "Now you know all. I dragged poor Mary into this against her will. I loved her, yet I would have destroyed her. The only wish I have left now in the world is to make atonement, to take away all this weight from her, and make her life happy. You may not believe me, but it matters not—I care not—if I can only save her."
But Dr. Duncan did believe her. He listened to her and he understood all now. He pitied the brave and generous, though misguided woman before him. In his joy at what he had heard, he forgave her everything for her great unselfish love for his darling. A crowd of thoughts rushed across his mind. He recalled many remarks of his wife that corroborated this story. He remembered how she had ever expressed love and admiration for Catherine King. Yes, this was the Secret!—and what did all this confession of Catherine mean to him? Why! that his wife had not been the victim of delusion—that she was not drifting as he so much feared, into some terrible and incurable form of insanity. Her fears had been but too reasonable—and now it needed but a few words to clear the shadow from her mind for ever! All this trouble was over now. In the excess of his delight he could bear no ill-will to the bringer of such good tidings, he could not reason calmly about her crimes and errors.