“To believe in the power of one, you must acknowledge the supremacy of the other,” said the doctor gravely. “To refute God, means renouncing the existence of an evil being. To believe there is a devil, one must also believe there is a God.”
“True! true,” cried Andrew. “I know it now. Then I did not care to become acquainted with anything divine. My arguments against my Maker were such as an untaught child might have used; senseless and without reason. All things which stood in the path between Victoria and myself must be swept aside, no matter how. She was my religion, my God. To worship before her at her feet; to die there looking up into the sweet, spirituelle face; that alone could bring peace to my soul.”
Victoria had come softly into the room without the knowledge of the invalid, and standing out of his sight had heard these last passionate words of a despairing heart. She wept. How gladly would she have taken his head upon her breast, and with sweet, womanly compassion have eased his troubled soul, but he had chosen to confide in some one not so near or so dear. She must be content to watch, and wait and listen, while he told to another the tale of his sin and shame. She watched the doctor, as with all the tenderness of a woman he bent over the invalid, smoothing the hair from his forehead. How thankful to God she ought to feel for this friend raised up so opportunely for them in their distress, yet she was ashamed that a slight feeling of jealousy should mingle with her thankfulness. A jealousy born of the great love which filled her heart, for the man who had so grievously wronged her, yet who had loved her as few women are ever loved. She saw the mighty struggle which was going on within him, photographed upon his face. Great drops of moisture rolled from his brow. His lips trembled with the excess of his emotion. He grasped the doctor’s hand and gazed longingly, wistfully at him.
“Doctor will you believe what I am about to tell you? Will you cast all doubt from your mind that perhaps I am trying to gain sympathy? Will you have faith in the word of a man who has sacrificed honor, truth, everything, to his own guilty desires?”
“I will,” replied the doctor gravely.
“I could not gain strength to confess if I saw a shadow of doubt upon your face,” continued Andrew. “If Victoria only believes also, I care not for the world’s opinion. Why should I? To briefly conclude my confession, I will say that when I again regained consciousness I found my limbs free, and in a few moments with the aid of my hooded Samaritan, I stood upon my feet, and walked. I told him of my brother, and we at once began our search. All rancor had fled from my heart. A fear that I might find him dead drove all other thoughts away. If at that moment I could have died to save my brother’s life, I would have done so, for Victoria’s sake. Presently we found him lying stiff and silent beside the body of a beautiful young woman. One arm was thrown about her as if for protection. Her head lay upon his breast. A smile, sweet and peaceful curved the corners of his mouth. Her eyes were wide open, and the fearful knowledge of approaching death had frozen in their depths. A jagged hole in each head, at almost the same spot, told the manner of their death. We decided that they were quite dead, and had been for hours. I sorrowed, perhaps not so much for Roger, he was infinitely better off, but for Victoria who just then was totally unfit to bear this extra burden. I told the circumstances to the monk who had assisted me, and we agreed that it was best to despatch two telegrams. The first one should say that Roger had met with a serious accident. After an interval of an hour we would send the next one announcing his death. We carried out that plan, the monk driving to the next town to send the telegrams, while, with the help of others, I carried Roger to the monastry, which was but a short distance away, there to remain until an undertaker should come to prepare the body for a safe removal to our home, for I knew full well Victoria would not consent to a burial so far away. While I was awaiting the arrival of an undertaker, I returned to the dreadful scene, which seemed to hold a fascination for me. The monks were still at work among the dead and dying. The body of the beautiful unknown lady had been covered by a blanket, awaiting the arrival of friends to identify her. Not far off I discovered a shapeless mass which had once been the form of a man. I stooped over it. Not a feature of the face could be discerned. The trunk had been twisted out of hardly any semblance to a human being, yet the clothing was intact. Only by searching the clothing could this body be identified. I knelt down and felt in the pockets of the coat, not without a sense of horror and repulsion at the eyrie task, but it had to be done. The monks were busy, I must be of all the use I could, recoil as I might. I drew forth a package of papers; one was a marriage certificate dated three days previous. The names were John Joseph Saxon and Julia Almira Brown. In a moment I saw, as in a vision, the beautiful face which now was covered by a coarse blanket, and I remembered where I had seen it before, bright with animation, and the voice full of girlish laughter, as she spoke to her companion, a man rather coarse looking, and several years her senior. I went swiftly back to the silent figure, and, turning away the blanket, took from the hand a new plain gold ring. It was as I had thought. She had been a bride hardly three days, for inscribed within the ring were the initials J. J. S. to J. A. B. To make the identification more sure, a locket hung from her neck by a chain, and inside the locket I found the picture of the man whose face I had connected with hers. Idealized somewhat, as most pictures are, but still I recognized it as belonging to him who had sat beside the beautiful girl, only two seats back of my own. On the other side of the locket the same bright laughing eyes looked out at me, as I remembered them the night before the accident; eyes which had never known sorrow or care, but which now stared up at me with that terrible look of horror frozen in their depths. Yes, these two belonged to each other. It now remained only for me to ascertain where they had come from, and who were their friends, so that they might know of their sad fate. As I again began to search the papers found on the body, I heard a voice at my side say ‘Are you the chap who brought a man’s body to the monastry a little while ago?’”
“Yes,” I replied. Something in his voice had sent an icy chill through my veins. “Well, the man’s alive, and the fathers sent me to fetch you.”
“Alive! I gasped. Roger alive! Man, you know not what you say!”
“‘Perhaps I don’t,’ he answered, with a grin, ‘but I guess the fathers do. They ought to know a dead man from a live one, they handle ’em often enough.’”
“I sat down upon the ground beside the body I had been searching, crushed by the sudden overthrow to all my plans. The first thought was one of gladness that my brother lived, but only for a moment did I rejoice. My good angel had hardly whispered ‘I am glad,’ ere the devil, with his evil tongue, banished the tender, pleading voice, and the wicked spirit within me which had lain dormant for a time, was aroused to action. I sprang to my feet, and started toward the monastery, leaving the man staring after me open-mouthed. I cannot tell you of the mad thoughts which whirled through my brain as I climbed the steep hill leading to the monastery. I was hardly conscious of them myself. Only one thought was uppermost. Roger must die if he still lived. He should not live to thwart me. I reached the monastery. A monk met me with a cordial smile.