It was in furtherance of this desire that Gerald had at length taken the voyage to England, trusting that the ten long years which had passed had so effectually altered his appearance, that he could safely revisit the scenes where he might most probably hear news of those he had lost. A morbid terror of recognition had by this time fastened upon him, becoming a second nature, so that he could not easily associate with other men. Thus all his enquiries had ended in disappointment and failure, being only addressed to strangers who would naturally be unable to give him the personal clue which he sought.
"I went as a last chance to Norwich," he said, "knowing that you had a relative there who might help, but I found that he was dead, and his wife also, so that hope fell to the ground. By this time I was quite worn out by privation and anxiety, so that my heart got affected, and I had such a bad attack that I was obliged to go into hospital for some weeks. It was there that the change came, and I saw my life in the light of Heaven. I realized that I had sinned not only against man but against God. As I lay upon what might have been my death-bed, I made a solemn vow that if I was spared I would go back to California, and give myself up to justice, so as to atone as far as I could for what I had done so many years ago. I determined to delay only long enough to get back my strength, and it was for this reason I decided to come to Sunbury, knowing the pureness of its air, and remembering too the happy days of our short honeymoon here, when we were young and knew not what life held of bitterness for us both."
Madelaine's face was strained and grey as she sat listening silently, trying to take in what her husband's words signified, and her parched lips almost refused to utter the question which she strove to ask.
"Do you mean to say you are going to leave me again, and to deliberately give yourself up to trial and perhaps even death? After all this time too? Oh, Gerald, is it really necessary? It is more than I can possibly bear. Surely there is some other way?"
"It is the only way," replied Gerald, "there is no other. I have not a shadow of doubt about it. But, oh, my darling, it is a cruel blow to deal you, and to know that it is I who have inflicted this pain upon you is a worse punishment than any that can possibly come to me from the hands of the law."
Madelaine made no reply. She sat as if stunned by the terrible future which had opened out before her, following so closely upon the sudden joy. Her hands were tightly clasped together, and she gazed out of the window as one who saw nothing.
"Madelaine!" exclaimed Gerald suddenly, "is it too great a sacrifice that I am asking you to share? Am I wrong in demanding it of you? We are one, my wife, and you have a right to speak on this matter which concerns us both so intimately. I put it to you--shall I stay so long as you need me, or do you agree that it is right for me to go? Help me to decide, only remember it must be a decision which is made in the presence of God."
Madelaine gave a shiver as at length she turned her eyes from the window, and fixed them mournfully upon her husband's face.
"It is right for you to go, Gerald," she said with a little choking sob. "I will not hold you back. God have you in His keeping, and may He in some way bring light into this black dark night which has settled down upon us all."
CHAPTER XVII