“No, he doesn’t intend to do that, John. He knows the torture we are enduring, and he wants it to go on. He means to let the bank lose the money.”
“Then, the burden of the guilt still rests on the shoulders of our dead son.”
“Oh, don’t, John—don’t put it like that! I’ve borne enough—I can’t bear much more. I think I’m going mad. My brain throbs, everything goes dim before my sight, and my heart leaps, and shooting pains—”
She tottered forward into her husband’s arms. He clasped her close, drawing her to him and pressing kisses on her cheeks.
“My darling, my darling, be strong. It is not ended yet.”
“Take me home, John—take me home!” she sobbed.
“No, I’ll see the old man myself.”
“John! John! It’ll do no good—I beseech you! I cannot trust you out of my sight. I never know what you may do or what you will say. I know it’s hard for you to go against your principles; but you mustn’t absolutely kill me. I should die, John, if you played traitor to me, your wife, and allowed me to be sent to jail.”
“Don’t Mary—don’t!” he groaned.
“When a man leaves his father and mother, he cleaves unto his wife: and, when I left my home, 194 John, I was faithful and true to you. It was for you that I stooped to the trick which I now realize was a crime which my father uses as a whip to lash me with. We must live it down, John. The bank people are rich. It won’t hurt them much—whereas confession would annihilate us.”