Andrew stretched out his hands and drew Victoria to him. “God bless you,” he said reverently. “God watch over and protect you, but He will. You are of His chosen ones. No harm can ever come to such as you. I have longed to keep Mary, but I would not broach the subject and ask this sacrifice of you. It would have been too presuming on my part, but now, now that you have offered how gladly do I accept. The touch of her baby fingers will keep me from all sin. The sound of her sweet voice will heal the canker which seems eating into my heart. Again I say God bless you Victoria.”
He had put her from him without a caress. She had been sacred to him from the day when against his will he had chosen liberty without her, to prison bars with the occasional light of her face to cheer him; and then he slowly ascended the stairs to the gabled room where Roger sat laughing at the queer antics of Adam, who was creeping about the room on all fours, making noises in imitation of a dog, cat, sheep, cow, or anything he happened to think of.
“Good, Adam,” cried the imbecile clapping his hands, “nice Adam, do it again, my Adam.” He turned when he heard Andrew’s footsteps, and a troubled look came over his face. “Go away,” he whined. “You will make Adam stop. Go away, I tell you, you ain’t wanted here.”
Andrew stood sadly gazing at the mental wreck before him. How gladly now would he welcome the light of returning reason in that face which he had so hated. With what joy would he bring light to those darkened eyes if he only had the power.
Roger was beating the air with his hands. His hearing was most acute, and he knew that Andrew still lingered. “Adam,” he called, “put that thing out. I can hear it breathe; it annoys me.”
Andrew put out his hand and touched his brother. “My poor Roger,” he said. “Don’t you know my voice? cannot you remember brother Andrew?”
Again the troubled expression crossed the imbecile’s face, but only for a moment; then he raised his hand as if to strike at something. “Go away,” he cried. “Adam won’t be a cat so long as you stay. Cry like a cat, again, Adam,” and as Adam set up a series of meows which made Roger shout with glee, Andrew turned sadly and left the room. As he entered his study he saw his chair in its accustomed place before the writingdesk. He threw himself into it and bowing his head upon the desk he wept long and sorrowfully. No need for this man to go before a jury to receive sentence. Every hour his punishment hung heavier upon him; every moment his conscience lashed him with greater fury, until, as now, he was prone to cry: “Enough, my God! enough!”
As the time came for Victoria’s departure he tried to cast aside the gloom which depressed him, and appear cheerful so as not to add one straw to the brave woman’s burden. He assisted the doctor to remove Roger from the house at night when all was quiet. The doctor had given his patient a strong opiate, so that he would not attract notice by crying out, and himself acting as driver, with Andrew and Adam caring for Roger, he drove twenty miles to an out of the way station, there to await the coming of Victoria.
The next night Andrew drove home alone, and when Victoria bade him good-bye at the station the following day, the lookers on had not a suspicion of the tragedy overshadowing the fair, self-possessed woman, who shook her husband’s hand so calmly, and who pressed only one kiss on the soft cheek of her baby girl with an almost indifferent air. Nor had these same people any thought save that of envy, for the sad-eyed, stern-faced man, who stood watching the train bearing out of his sight perhaps forever, the being who had been all the world to him for so many years. To those about him he was the richest man for miles around; he had just recovered from an illness which would have killed any ordinary man, and therefore, as one person said—looking after Andrew as he strode from the station with Mary perched upon his shoulder: “That’s the luckiest man in Virginia. Everything he touches turns to gold. He has had more positions of trust offered him than any other man in the country. A word from him carries more weight than as if the Governor had spoken. Everybody envies him.” But if that man could have seen the object of his envy a few moments later, when, after escaping from the prying eyes of people, he was slowly driving homeward, there would have been nothing but pity in his heart for the wretched man. He had taken Mary upon his knee, and had buried his face in her sunny curls. For a few moments he said nothing; his grief was too deep for words; while Mary, with a grave air far beyond her years, patted his head with her soft hand. She had not shed a tear at parting with her mother. Victoria had had a long talk with her the night before, and Mary felt the importance of her charge. Mamma had told her she must not cry because if she did papa would get sick again. That everything funny she saw during the day she must tell papa at night so as to cheer him. That she must never do anything to annoy him. That she must try to be his little comfort until mamma returned, which Mary reasoned would be to-morrow. She stroked the hair back from her father’s hot throbbing temple, and her touch soothed him. He hugged her closer, and thought how wise Victoria had been to leave him this jewel; this priceless pearl.
“Love me hard, little one,” he said, trying to master his emotion. “Papa has need of all your love. He is sick unto death.”