That she used to wear in her breast!
Far more than his life, more than the name and fame of the Reverend Henry Sanderson, she mattered! Could he write it for her eye, the whole truth, so that sometime—afterward—the bishop might know, and the blot be erased from his career? Impossible! With Hugh buried in Aniston and he in Smoky Mountain, who was there but would smile at such a tale? She might shout it to the world, and it would answer with derision. And what comfort would the truth be to her?
Could he say to her: "Your husband lies dead under my tombstone, not innocent, but unregenerate and vile. I, who you think am your husband, am not and never was. You have come to my call—but I am nothing to you. You are the wife of the guilty murderer of Moreau!" Could he leave this behind him, and, passing from her life for ever, turn the memory of their love into an irremediable bitterness? No—no! Better never to tell her! Better to let her live her life, holding her faith and dream, treasuring her belief in his regeneration and innocence!
He thought of the closing chapter in his life at Aniston, when in that hour of his despair he had prayed by his study desk. The words he had then said aloud recurred to him: "If I am delivered, it must be by some way of Thine Own that I can not conceive, for I can not help myself." He was powerless to help himself still. He had given over his life into the keeping of a Power in which his better manhood had trusted. If it exacted the final tribute for those ribald years of Satan Sanderson, the price would be paid!
A step came in the corridor—a voice spoke his name. The summons had come. As he laid the blue book back on the cot, its closing words—the dying utterance of the martyred Becket—flashed through his mind, the personal cry of his own soul:
"Into Thy hands, O Lord—into Thy hands!"
Before the opening door the hum of voices in the court-room sank to stillness itself. The jury had taken their places; their looks were sober and downcast. The judge was in his seat, his hand combing his beard. Harry faced him calmly. The door of a side room was partly open and a girl's white face looked in, but he did not see.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you arrived at a verdict?"
"We have."
There was a confusion in the hall—abrupt voices and the sound of feet. The crowd stirred and the judge frowningly lifted his gavel.