Andrew paused as he saw the look of horror on the doctor’s face. “Yes, I know of what you are thinking,” he continued. “I separated them. The sweet young wife sleeps under a willow tree, in an old church-yard, many miles from here. Her childhood home. She was an orphan, with no near relatives. No one took the trouble to inquire into the matter. I told the story of the accident to the good people of the village, a little hamlet numbering twenty-five souls, all told. There was a simple burial service, and everybody supposed that husband and wife were buried in one grave, and that one casket contained them both. The body of John Saxon lies here at ‘The Gables,’ hardly a stone’s throw away. His father was a seafaring man, a ne’er-do-well when on shore. His mother had died in the townhouse. No danger of him ever being inquired for; you see I was careful to get the exact history of these two persons who served my evil purpose so well. Will God forgive me, think you, for separating husbands from wives? First, John Saxon, from his blue-eyed bride; next, Victoria, from my own brother? Oh, God! my sin is grievous.”
Andrew covered his face, and sobs, terrible to hear, burst from his lips. The doctor, although loathing this man’s sin, could but pity him. His grief was sincere. His repentance genuine.
“There has been no sin so great, but that God, in His mercy, has forgiven it,” he said, stroking the invalid’s trembling hands. “He divines the secret workings of your heart. He knows that you are repentant.”
“Ah, yes,” sighed Andrew. “Repentant when too late. God’s patience cannot last forever. There is a limit even to His forbearance. Think of the years in which I have gone on sinning, even when my conscience pricked me every moment, and when I knew what the end must be.”
“Then you have suffered the throes of remorse?” questioned the doctor.
“Remorse!” echoed the sick man, beating his breast with his clenched hands, “Remorse! Oh, could I describe to you the workings of my brain, the tumults in my heart, which tortured me through the long hours of the night, while those I loved and had sinned for, were sleeping. This last year has been to me hourly a hideous dream, from which I feared to awaken. I knew that my thoughts were driving me mad. I did not care. My only hope was, that if I went mad, I might be removed to where Victoria could not reproach me with her sad face, when she at last should know the truth. Doctor, that woman is Divine. She is not of this earth. I adore her more, if it be possible, than before my sickness, and I curse myself when I think that, upon her dear head must fall all the results of my wrong-doing. The world is harsh. When it knows my story it will not spare her. She and the child will be the greater sufferers. I would willingly be torn limb from limb, I would die a thousand deaths, if it could be the means of sparing them from the jibes and taunts of a cruel, heartless world.”
Victoria had listened to Andrew silently but not without emotion. She had followed his every gesture with eyes of love. She heard the confession of his guilt, but her heart did not harden toward him. It only grew more tender. His sin had been great, but now he was repentant. Through his love for her had he sinned. She would show him how much she was now willing to sacrifice for his sake, to shield him from the world. She stepped from the curtain which had concealed her, and rapidly approaching the bedside she threw herself upon her knees, and taking Andrew’s hands in her own kissed them passionately.
“The world shall never know your secret, my darling,” she cried. “What good can it bring to the poor imbecile up stairs to publish abroad your wrong doing? We only are concerned. Let us live as before, more secluded if you will, only we must not be separated. I cannot consent to that. To see you behind prison bars, the subject of ridicule from coarse, low people who could never understand the motive of your crime, would kill me. And Mary, our sweet little blossom, could never recover from the ignominy if the finger of scorn should be pointed at her, and she should be called—a convict’s daughter, and—and a—” Victoria hesitated, and then with a low sob hid her face in the bed clothing. She could not pronounce the word which might needlessly wound Andrew, and which so cruelly branded her little innocent child.
Andrew stroked the bowed head slowly, softly, tenderly. He had not known until now the depth and passion of this woman’s nature. It was a revelation to him. She was all his own. Though prison bars might separate their bodies no power was strong enough to divide their hearts. He looked at the doctor who was sheepishly wiping his eyes. “The way of the transgressor is hard,” he said, still stroking Victoria’s head. “My path of duty lies open before me. I must not swerve from it. Victoria, my beloved, I can bear my ignominy now that I have the full assurance of your love. What matters it though prison bars separate us? What care I for the world’s derision and contempt, so long as I know that the woman for whom I have sinned loves me, and has freely forgiven me. No sacrifice seems, too great for me to perform, and justice though tardy must be accorded my poor brother. My eyes are open to my sin. I cannot drag you into any further depths of wrong doing. I have worshipped you as an angelic being; I would not now find too much of woman in your nature. To me you must remain as you have always been, pure, and moulded in finer clay than your sister women. Now that you know my crime you must not share it. We could never feel else than degraded though nobody but ourselves be the wiser.”
Victoria arose from her knees and kissed Andrew upon his forhead. “As you will,” she said, striving for composure. “Though my heart should break, I will do as you shall direct.”