The doctor, who had kept silent, now spoke. His words astonished both Victoria and Andrew.
“In a certain sense Mrs. Willing is right about this matter,” he said gravely. “Will you allow me to advise you, Mr. Willing?”
“Most certainly, doctor. Advice from you I should value above all other.”
“Then I say, as Mrs. Willing has said; keep this crime a secret.”
“What!” cried Andrew, starting from his pillow, “you, too, against me, when I had resolved to ease my conscience, to at last confess my sin to the world? Ah, doctor, I had counted on your strong arm to help me do what is right.”
“But you do not grasp my meaning, my dear Andrew. I do not mean to infer you shall not suffer. I will try to explain my meaning by asking you a question. Which had you rather do? Confess your crime to a magistrate, and receive the penalty which would probably be twenty years in prison, with the privilege of seeing Victoria and your child once a month; or would you rather keep your crime a secret, but the penalty shall be a life-long separation from the woman whom you love? You shall never look upon her face again?”
Victoria started and looked almost savagely at the doctor; then turning, she put out her arms toward Andrew. Without a moments hesitation he answered, giving Victoria a loving glance: “I choose the prison cell with all its attendant privations. I cannot lose my angel forever.”
With a glad cry Victoria again sunk upon her knees.
“And now you show your selfishness,” said the doctor, sternly. “You think justice to your brother demands that you shall make known your crime. I say that it does not. Nothing will be gained by such a confession, but much will be lost. If Roger were in his right mind, I should say, ‘Do not hesitate a moment, but give yourself up at once;’ but now it matters not to the poor fellow what is done. His clouded brain can never recover. It is only a question of time with him. On the other hand see what misery and shame will descend upon your child by your confession. She it is who will be obliged to bear the brunt of all your wrong-doing. There is where your selfishness begins. You would hold up your child to the scorn of the world, for the mere pleasure of being able to see the woman you love for a few brief hours every month. You say you have repented, yet your repentance does not reach so far that you can bear an entire separation from the being whom you adore. Your confession will benefit nobody except a parcel of scandal mongers who will only say, ‘I told you so. Another rich man gone wrong.’ It is as Mrs. Willing says. They would not understand your motive in confessing your crime. What I propose is this. If your repentance is sincere, send Victoria away with her husband, for he has a prior right you must acknowledge. In administering to his comfort she will also learn to control her heart, and God will be with her. There is where her duty lies. It seems hard, but nevertheless it is right. And you must stay here alone. Your duties all lie here. Your estates would go to ruin without you. Here is where you are needed. God requires you to confess your sin to Him in all repentance and sincerity, and then to lead a life showing your true repentance. Such a life, I believe, is required of you now. It will be full of self-denial for both of you; of fighting continually with the old Adam within you; but as Mary grows to womanhood, you can have the sweet knowledge of filial love which otherwise, if the truth were known to her, might have been turned to hatred. I do not believe God requires you to make your sin known to the world, and none but a religious crank or fanatic would advise you other than I have done.”
The doctor arose and took his hat. “I will leave you to think it over, my dear fellow. Your good sense will tell you to decide as I have advised. Mrs. Willing has already said she will abide by your decision.”