“But you might just come to the door,” persisted the child, “and say, ‘Go away, Mary, papa can’t see you just yet,’ and not keep me banging at the door so long. I’ve listened at the keyhole many a time, and it’s so awfully still it makes me afraid.”
And at such times Andrew would take Mary on his knee, and bury his troubled face in the child’s clustering curls. The anguish of his heart was plainly visible in his manner, but only his God and Mary was there to witness it, and although the child knew that there was something amiss, her childish mind could not fathom it. She only knew that her father was troubled, and in her baby fashion she comforted him, calling him “poor papa,” and smoothing the heavy lines of care upon his forehead with soft, caressing fingers, which were as an angel’s to Andrew’s fevered, throbbing temples. To him this child seemed nothing less than a celestial being, lent to him by a merciful God for a time, to sooth his tired frame, and who might be snatched from him in the twinkling of an eye; and he clasped his treasure to him with a passion born of his morbid fears, until the child begged to be released.
As the days grew into months Andrew’s strange melancholy increased, as also his fancy that Mary must never be from his sight unless she were asleep, until Victoria feared for his reason. To her his behavior was as a tangled skein, of which she could find no end whereby she might begin to unravel. To all her questions his invariable reply was that he felt in the best of health; that his affairs in business were most satisfactory, and with this she was obliged to content herself, although it by no means reassured her. And too, his growing watchfulness over Mary alarmed Victoria. He demanded that her crib be placed closed beside his bed, and when Victoria surprised at the request asked the reason, he replied that of late he had been troubled with strange dreams, and that he thought he might rest better if he could awaken and lay his hand upon his child. So to humor him, Victoria had Mary’s little bed removed from her room to that adjoining, and many nights after that when Andrew came from his study, he would bend over the sweet sleeper, touching softly the dainty cheek, or raising a tiny hand kiss each finger passionately, while tears which he did not strive to check, fell upon the innocent being whom he had sinned against beyond pardon, yet whom he loved as few children are beloved by their parents.
CHAPTER IV.
At last nature turns if tried beyond her limit, snapped the frail cord which held Andrew’s mind in soundness, and in a moment that which he had dreaded was upon him. He knew that he was insane.
One night he had repaired to his study as usual. The pressure in his head was something almost unendurable. He felt the cord snapping, and resolved ere it was too late, to write a letter to his wife. To write the confession so long deferred. He took his pen and endeavored to collect his thoughts. It was not difficult to inscribe “My Darling Wife” at the top of the page. Then he gazed at it dreamily. Something was wrong in those three words, but what was it? Where did the right begin, and where did it end? He read the words over and over again aloud, so that he might understand them more fully. Then he slowly drew his pen through them and wrote beneath “My Cherished Victoria.” “She will know why I did it,” he murmured. “Oh, yes, she will know.” He lingered over the next words with a tender smile on his face. “No woman on this earth was ever loved with the worship, adoration, which I have lavished upon you. She knows that too,” he continued, resting his head upon one hand. “Why do I tell her what she already knows so well? Ah, why?” He dropped the pen and seemed to be musing, then resuming, with a fierce wild light burning in his eyes, he wrote: “But I have also sinned grievously against you; so grievously, that I can never hope for pardon, therefore I have resolved to take my life, and so end it all.”
He stopped and looked wildly about him. Where was the blessed instrument which in a moment would put him out of the torments and misery now assailing him. He opened several drawers in his desk, and at last found what he sought. He handled it lovingly. This little toy would give him that peace which had fled from him for so many years. He could lie down to a dreamless sleep and waken—where? He did not care. The unknown and untried hereafter could be better borne than the tears and reproaches of Victoria. He had no dread of what he should meet. If he could only escape, only escape. He kissed the weapon which was so soon to bring him that coveted rest, and laid it down to finish his confession.
He had just taken up his pen when a loud tattoo was beat upon the wall nearest to where he was sitting. He arose with an air of resignation, as if what he was about to do was a duty most irksome to him, and opening the book-case door, placed his hand inside. Noiselessly the ponderous case rolled forward, disclosing an aperture rather larger than a common door. A powerful mulatto stepped into the study, and approached Andrew, gesticulating wildly. He placed his hands to his head, and then upon his chest, motioning toward the opening through which he had just entered.
“Is your master ill?” asked Andrew. The man nodded a quick assent. Andrew motioned him to follow, and went quickly up the stairs which could be plainly seen from the opening.
It was fully an hour ere he returned. He descended the stairs with a weary, lagging step, as if every motion of his limbs was an effort. His eyes had lost their wild, frenzied look, and seemed filled with a dull, heavy pain. The man was suffering deeply, and as he crawled to his chair beside the desk, and dropped into it like a log, one felt that whatever the crisis might be, it was now near at hand.