Then she began the recital of her sorrow. He listened deeply interested. She told him everything. She told him of her girlish love for Roger; of her aversion to Andrew. Of her supposed widowhood, and of the premature birth of a shapeless thing, which could not even be called child.
She told of Andrew’s watchful loving care, and how at last she began to care for him, and, though loving Roger’s memory, she married Andrew who tried faithfully to shield her from every care, and who surrounded her with the tenderest love. She told of the birth of Mary, sweet fair and winsome; of Andrew’s deep love for his child; of the child’s passionate adoration for her father and there she hesitated, while her face showed the torture which her soul was undergoing.
James Vale understood her emotion, and he stroked her hand soothingly. “Do not tell if it pains you,” he said. “I can help you if I do not know the circumstances.”
“No, no, you cannot,” she interrupted. “I must tell you everything. I want your advice. You cannot give it unless you know the full facts. It is another’s sin I must tell you of, and oh, I fear your judgment will be harsh. That you will say things against the absent one who is not here to plead his cause. Things which will hurt me because they are said against him.”
“I promise to fairly judge,” replied her uncle. “I will not say anything to wound you.”
“It is my husband, Andrew Willing, of whom I now speak,” she continued. “Judge him as leniently as you can for he has suffered, bitterly suffered, and every day he is expiating his sin.” Then with many hesitations, with many tears, she unburdened her heart, and when she had done she felt better. The load which had weighed her to the ground was lifted, and was being born by one of her own flesh and blood. What a blessed relief this was to Victoria, can only be devined by those who have borne similar burdens.
James Vale was shocked, horrified at the tale. His eyes sought the dense woods through which they were passing, so that Victoria might not see the horror in them. He had thought that his Dora had been the most stricken of women, but here was one whose sorrows had been legion. Sorrows before which Dora’s wrongs sank into insignificance.
“God pity and help you!” he said, at last. “You are indeed sorely pressed.”
“And now,” continued Victoria, “comes this new difficulty. What shall I do if my mother should discover my hiding place which she is very likely to do. I dare not drive every day for fear of meeting her, and the drives are Roger’s chief pleasures. Can you advise me?”
“I see no way but for you to leave London, my dear Victoria.”