“Truly Anna died a martyr’s death,” Richard murmured, feeling now how glad he was that he had held her in his arms and kissed her quivering lips with the kiss of forgiveness, when all else stood aloof as from a sinful thing.
“Yes, a martyr’s death,” Robert repeated sadly; “and some time you will tell me how she died and about her child, but now I hasten on with the part which concerns myself. I went to England and then to California, working in the gold mines like a dog, and literally starving myself for the sake of gain. I would pay that debt, I said, and I would yet be worthy of Anna. It was some time in October that I stumbled upon a Boston paper in which was a notice of Anna’s death, put in by the Haverleighs, I presume, as they were greatly attached to her. I knew it was my Anna, and that I had killed her, and for a time reason and life forsook me. I was sick for weeks, and when I came back to life, Stanley, the man who first taught me to sin, was taking care of me. He, too, had come to the land of gold, finding me by mere chance, and knowing at once that I was not John Maxwell, as I had given out. But he betrayed no secrets, and since then has proved the old adage that there is honor even among thieves. By some means he had ascertained that in consideration of a sum of money paid by you, together with your promise of the whole, Uncle Jason had concluded to say nothing of my forgery. He had also heard that West Lawn was sold, and I knew well what prompted this sacrifice, and cursed myself for the sinful wretch I was. Stanley did not remain in California longer than spring, but returned to New York, from which place he has occasionally written and given me tidings of home. At my request he has at four different times been to Morrisville, and reported to me what he learned. In this way I heard of Robin, and I know that thoughts of him have helped to make me a better man.
“By some strange chance Stanley was there when Robin died, and mingling with those who followed my child to the grave, he saw you, mother, and Dick, and a young lady was with you, he said, a fair young girl, whom Dick called Dora. Is she to be your wife?” and he turned towards Richard, who, with a half moan, replied, “I hoped so once, but I have lost her now.”
Robert pressed the hands of his brother in token of sympathy, and then continued: “I never saw my boy, but I wept bitterly when I heard he was dead, while my desire to return was materially lessened; but this feeling wore away, and I came again to look eagerly forward to the time when with the gold in my hand I could go back and pay the heavy debt I owe you.”
“Did you never hear directly from Anna?” Richard asked, remembering the letter sent to California.
“Yes, once; and it made me for a time almost as mad as my darling. I was up in the mountains when I read it, and the live-long night I lay upon the ground, crying as men are not apt to cry. I have that letter now. It is in my wallet. Would you like to see it?”
A moment after Dr. West held in his hand a worn, yellow paper, on which were traced the last words ever written by the unfortunate Anna, words which made the doctor’s chest heave with anguish as he read them, while his mother sobbed hysterically. A part of this letter we transcribe for the reader:
* * * “I am in a mad-house, darling, where are so many, many crazy people, and they say that I am crazy too. It’s only the secret in my head and heart which makes them burn so cruelly. Richard and mother brought me here. Poor Richard looks so white and sorry, and speaks so kindly of you, wondering where you are, that once I bit my tongue until it bled, to keep from telling what I knew. If I had not promised with my hand upon the Bible, I am sure I should tell, but that oath haunts me day and night, and I dare not break it, so now I never talk, and I was glad when they brought me here, for it was safer so. It was dreadful at first, and sometimes I most wished I could die, but God is here just as He is in Morrisville, and at last I prayed to Him as I used to do. You see I forgot to pray for a while, it was so terrible, and I thought I was lost forever, but I’ve found God again, and I don’t mind the dreadful place. Everybody is kind to me, everybody says ‘poor girl,’ and you need not worry because I am here. I pray for you every minute, and God will hear and save you, because He has promised, and God never lies. Dear, darling Robert, if I dared tell you something, it might perhaps bring you home to spare me from the shame which is surely coming, unless I tell, and that I’ve sworn not to do. It makes me blush to write it, and so I guess I won’t; but just imagine, if I was your wife before all the world, and we were living somewhere alone, and Richard did not love me, as I know he does, and folks called me Mrs. West instead of poor Anna, and you always hurried home at night to see me, wouldn’t it be nice if we had a little baby between us to love, you because it was Anna’s, and I because it was Robert’s! But now, O Robert, what shall I do, with you away, and that Bible oath in my heart. God will help me, I hope, and perhaps take me home to him, where they know I am innocent. Poor Richard, I pity him most when he comes to know it, but God will care for him, and when I am gone he will find some other one more worthy than I for him to love.
“There came a young girl here yesterday, not to stay, for her brains all were sound, but with some more to look at us, and as they reached my door I heard the attendant whisper something of me, while the stranger came up to me and said:
“‘Poor girl, does your head ache very hard?’ and she put her hand so gently on my hair; but I would not look up, and she went on with her companion, who called her Dora. I don’t know why her voice made me think of Richard, but it did, it was so soft and pitiful, just like his when he speaks to me. It made me cry, and I prayed carefully to myself, ‘God send to Richard another love, with a voice and manner like Dora.’” * * *