“I was weak and foolish, Lilian. I can see it now; I could not see it then.”
I told her the whole story from the beginning to the end—how I had been thorned by my uncle and by other creditors, and how I had been tempted to take the money from the bank. I told the truth, as I understood it at the time, when I declared that I had not, at first, intended to rob my employers. She listened to me with the deepest interest, occasionally interrupting me with questions. I told her the whole truth. I did not even conceal from her the fact that I had destroyed her letters. She wept bitterly as she rehearsed the sufferings of her parents and sisters.
“Let us go home, Paley,” said she, when I had finished the loathsome confession. “I don’t want to see Europe till you have atoned for your fault.”
“I may be thrown into prison if I go to Boston again,” I suggested.
She clasped me in her arms and wept upon my neck. If her heart was bursting, mine was hardly less affected. The afternoon, the evening, the night passed away, and still we wept and groaned in bitterness of spirit in each other’s arms. The clock struck four in the morning before we could decide what to do. She could not advise me to go home if a prison cell awaited me. I never realized the pressure of guilt so heavily before. I never knew my wife till then. Guilty as I was she still clung to me, and was willing to share my lot of shame and disgrace.
In the morning hours I told her what I would do. I would write to Tom Flynn. I would confess my error to him, assure him of the sincere penitence I felt, and be governed by his advice. I did write, page after page, and, sheet after sheet, till I had told the whole story. I assured him every penny the bank or my bondsmen had lost should be paid. I would give up everything I had.
I sent my long letter, with another from Lilian to her friends, by the next mail, and anxiously waited a reply, which could not reach me under three weeks.