Andrew improved rapidly. In a few days he was able to sit up and he ate
ravenously. The doctor came but seldom now. He had not asked again what
hopes Andrew had of the future, but Andrew had not forgotten, and one
day when the doctor was about to leave Andrew raised his hand and begged
him to stay for a time as he had much to say.
“Through your kindness to me and mine,” he said, “you have become one of
the family. A trusted friend. As such I wish to confide in you. To make
you my confessor as it were. I am strong now, and I feel I ought not to
defer this another hour.”
“I am at your service,” replied the doctor gravely, as he removed his
top coat and hat. “Anything which I can do for you will be done
cheerfully, and conscientiously.”
“I know it,” cried Andrew clasping the doctor’s hand which was held out
to him. “I know it. This household would have been like a rudderless
ship without you. I must have an adviser, who shall I turn to but you?”
He held the doctor’s hand tightly for a moment, and then dropping it,
said: “I will commence my confession dating from the time of Victoria’s
visit to my mother. I did not love her at first, but soon I began to
divine her lovely character; to admire her girlish beauty which at first
I could not see. It was not long ere I noticed her dislike for myself.
Her evident avoidance of my society. The more she shunned me the fiercer
grew my passion, yet in her presence I grew timid, and dared not avow my
love. Although I knew I stood not the ghost of a chance of winning her
love, I was insanely jealous of anybody or anything for whom she evinced
the least show of affection. My brother Roger was away from home all
this time, and suddenly there came news of an accident which had
befallen him. My mother and myself went to him at once, and as soon as
he was able to travel we brought him home. That night my passion
overpowered me, and I followed Victoria as she was leaving the house for
a stroll, and frightened her by my vehemence, and she fled from me. Her
coldness only fired my ardor, and finding her a good subject for
mesmerism, I tried my power upon her, brute that I was, and subjected
her to my will. I forced from her the caresses I could not gain any
other way. Yes, you may look at me with horror, doctor, but I am telling
you the truth. I was a miserable sneaking coward, and I do not wish to
spare myself. I will conceal nothing. You know what a handsome fellow
Roger was, and what a taking way he had with women? Well,
notwithstanding his blindness, Victoria fell in love with him, and he
with her. When her mother, Lady Vale, found it out she was furious, and
was for packing Victoria off to England without delay. Her opposition
only hastened the marriage, for taking my mother who was on their side,
they repaired to the judge the very next day and came home man and wife.
I had not a suspicion of what had happened until I heard the servants
talking it over. I went to my mother and demanded an explanation. What I
said I do not recollect, but I know that in my blind unreasoning
passion, I said words which killed my mother as surely as though I had
pierced her heart with a knife.”
The doctor started and looked hard at Andrew. “Then you were the cause
of Mrs. Willing’s sudden death? I was exceedingly puzzled at the time to
determine it.”
“Yes,” replied Andrew bitterly. “To all my other crimes can be added
that of matricide. At the time I did not care if everybody had died
excepting Victoria and myself, but in the years which followed I
sincerely repented of my brutal anger toward my mother, who, if she
loved Roger more than me, loved me far better than I deserved; but, like
all murderers, my repentance came too late.”
“You do not speak of yourself,” interrupted the doctor. “You had no idea
of the effect your hasty words would have upon your mother?”
“I certainly did not, but, nevertheless, her death lies on my
conscience, and a life-time of repentance cannot wipe out the horror of
it from my heart. What next I have to tell you is terrible. It will show
you the blackness of a human heart, the unnatural hatred for a twin
brother. I could not bear him to come near me. When I saw him caressing
Victoria, I could hardly restrain myself from springing at his throat
and choking the life out of him. My brain was busy devising plans
whereby I might separate them without committing actual murder. I will
not say but what I had murder in my heart, but I had not reached that
degree wherein I could muster courage and commit the crime. Nearly a
year had elapsed, when one day Victoria saw a notice of a famous oculist
who had been performing some remarkable cures on people supposed to be
blind. She was all enthusiasm at once. I must take Roger without delay
and visit the oculist. She was in too delicate health at the time to
think of accompanying us. We started, Roger in a state of excitement and
joy at Victoria’s last cheering words, that when they next met his eyes
would behold her face, and I with black thoughts of evil in my heart
toward my brother, for I had resolved that if he regained his eyesight
he would not return alive. We traveled by easy coaches until we reached
the railroad, and on the third day after leaving home we boarded the
train which was to bear us to New York and to the Mecca of Roger’s
hopes. I was moody and silent; Roger was hopeful and in gay spirits. He
built castles of airy structure with lightning rapidity; he lived a
score of future blissful years in less than as many hours, while the
train sped on and on. I have often wondered since if the devil took an
especial interest in that fateful journey. He must have done. As night
approached there came signs of a tempest. Dark threatening clouds rolled
up from the western horizon, only to meet the same rapidly approaching
from the east. Zigzag flashes of lightning, wierd and grandly beautiful,
lighted up for a brief moment the high mountain tops above us and the
deep gorges far beneath. Our train seemed, when revealed thus, as if
hung by a single thread between mountain and rushing torrent. If my mind
had not been so occupied with my own develish thoughts, I might have
enjoyed the magnificent spectacle, but the deep rolling thunder seemed
only a fitting accompaniment to my mood, the one link needed to complete
my gloomy chain of thought. Roger sat quietly in the seat ahead and
seemed partly asleep, his head nodding to the motion of the car as it
swayed to either side. We were going down a rather steep declivity. I
could feel the car tremble like a living creature under the strain
bearing upon it. I felt no fear; only an exhilaration born of the
impending danger.”
“Would we were being borne to perdition,” I murmured. The thought was
scarcely formed when with a shriek human in its agony, the engine gave a
mighty bound, there was a sound as if heaven and earth must have come
together, and I knew no more until I awoke to find the sun shining upon
a scene of ruin and disaster. Terrible groans mingled with curses and
with prayers to God, greeted my ears on every side. My body felt
benumbed; paralyzed. I raised my head and saw that my lower limbs were
firmly wedged between heavy timbers, while my hands were cut and
bleeding. My first thought was of Roger. I called his name. No one
answered, although I could hear subdued voices in tones of pity, trying
to administer words of comfort to the suffering ones around me.
Presently a hooded form bent over me. I raised my eyes.
“‘The Virgin Mary be praised,’ I heard a voice exclaim. ‘This man still
lives. Help, good comrades! Leave the dead and come to the assistance of
the living.’ As in a dream I felt hands working over me, and as the
heavy timbers were drawn from my benumbed limbs, and once more the life
blood began to flow, the exquisite torture was more than I could endure,
and again I fainted.”
Andrew stopped while the doctor wiped the moisture from his brow.
“Do not continue,” said the doctor kindly. “Defer your tale for a time.
You are weary. It is too much for you.”
“No, no!” cried Andrew. “Let me unburden my soul. Oh, doctor! if you
only knew how I have suffered in my mind. What struggles have been mine,
you would pity me, guilty wretch, though I be.”
“I know,” replied the doctor soothingly. “Nothing but sincerest pity
fills my heart for you, Andrew. To err is human. You are but human. At
that time you had no strong belief in Christ as a merciful mediator
between spiritual and temporal things. No light had ever been given
you.”
“Ah, no!” sighed Andrew. “I scoffed at God. The devil only controlled my
heart.”
“To believe in the power of one, you must acknowledge the supremacy of
the other,” said the doctor gravely. “To refute God, means renouncing
the existence of an evil being. To believe there is a devil, one must
also believe there is a God.”
“True! true,” cried Andrew. “I know it now. Then I did not care to
become acquainted with anything divine. My arguments against my Maker
were such as an untaught child might have used; senseless and without
reason. All things which stood in the path between Victoria and myself
must be swept aside, no matter how. She was my religion, my God. To
worship before her at her feet; to die there looking up into the sweet,
spirituelle face; that alone could bring peace to my soul.”
Victoria had come softly into the room without the knowledge of the
invalid, and standing out of his sight had heard these last passionate
words of a despairing heart. She wept. How gladly would she have taken
his head upon her breast, and with sweet, womanly compassion have eased
his troubled soul, but he had chosen to confide in some one not so near
or so dear. She must be content to watch, and wait and listen, while he
told to another the tale of his sin and shame. She watched the doctor,
as with all the tenderness of a woman he bent over the invalid,
smoothing the hair from his forehead. How thankful to God she ought to
feel for this friend raised up so opportunely for them in their
distress, yet she was ashamed that a slight feeling of jealousy should
mingle with her thankfulness. A jealousy born of the great love which
filled her heart, for the man who had so grievously wronged her, yet who
had loved her as few women are ever loved. She saw the mighty struggle
which was going on within him, photographed upon his face. Great drops
of moisture rolled from his brow. His lips trembled with the excess of
his emotion. He grasped the doctor’s hand and gazed longingly, wistfully
at him.
“Doctor will you believe what I am about to tell you? Will you cast all
doubt from your mind that perhaps I am trying to gain sympathy? Will you
have faith in the word of a man who has sacrificed honor, truth,
everything, to his own guilty desires?”
“I will,” replied the doctor gravely.
“I could not gain strength to confess if I saw a shadow of doubt upon
your face,” continued Andrew. “If Victoria only believes also, I care
not for the world’s opinion. Why should I? To briefly conclude my
confession, I will say that when I again regained consciousness I found
my limbs free, and in a few moments with the aid of my hooded Samaritan,
I stood upon my feet, and walked. I told him of my brother, and we at
once began our search. All rancor had fled from my heart. A fear that I
might find him dead drove all other thoughts away. If at that moment I
could have died to save my brother’s life, I would have done so, for
Victoria’s sake. Presently we found him lying stiff and silent beside
the body of a beautiful young woman. One arm was thrown about her as if
for protection. Her head lay upon his breast. A smile, sweet and
peaceful curved the corners of his mouth. Her eyes were wide open, and
the fearful knowledge of approaching death had frozen in their depths. A
jagged hole in each head, at almost the same spot, told the manner of
their death. We decided that they were quite dead, and had been for
hours. I sorrowed, perhaps not so much for Roger, he was infinitely
better off, but for Victoria who just then was totally unfit to bear
this extra burden. I told the circumstances to the monk who had assisted
me, and we agreed that it was best to despatch two telegrams. The first
one should say that Roger had met with a serious accident. After an
interval of an hour we would send the next one announcing his death. We
carried out that plan, the monk driving to the next town to send the
telegrams, while, with the help of others, I carried Roger to the
monastry, which was but a short distance away, there to remain until an
undertaker should come to prepare the body for a safe removal to our
home, for I knew full well Victoria would not consent to a burial so far
away. While I was awaiting the arrival of an undertaker, I returned to
the dreadful scene, which seemed to hold a fascination for me. The monks
were still at work among the dead and dying. The body of the beautiful
unknown lady had been covered by a blanket, awaiting the arrival of
friends to identify her. Not far off I discovered a shapeless mass which
had once been the form of a man. I stooped over it. Not a feature of the
face could be discerned. The trunk had been twisted out of hardly any
semblance to a human being, yet the clothing was intact. Only by
searching the clothing could this body be identified. I knelt down and
felt in the pockets of the coat, not without a sense of horror and
repulsion at the eyrie task, but it had to be done. The monks were busy,
I must be of all the use I could, recoil as I might. I drew forth a
package of papers; one was a marriage certificate dated three days
previous. The names were John Joseph Saxon and Julia Almira Brown. In a
moment I saw, as in a vision, the beautiful face which now was covered
by a coarse blanket, and I remembered where I had seen it before, bright
with animation, and the voice full of girlish laughter, as she spoke to
her companion, a man rather coarse looking, and several years her
senior. I went swiftly back to the silent figure, and, turning away the
blanket, took from the hand a new plain gold ring. It was as I had
thought. She had been a bride hardly three days, for inscribed within
the ring were the initials J. J. S. to J. A. B. To make the
identification more sure, a locket hung from her neck by a chain, and
inside the locket I found the picture of the man whose face I had
connected with hers. Idealized somewhat, as most pictures are, but still
I recognized it as belonging to him who had sat beside the beautiful
girl, only two seats back of my own. On the other side of the locket the
same bright laughing eyes looked out at me, as I remembered them the
night before the accident; eyes which had never known sorrow or care,
but which now stared up at me with that terrible look of horror frozen
in their depths. Yes, these two belonged to each other. It now remained
only for me to ascertain where they had come from, and who were their
friends, so that they might know of their sad fate. As I again began to
search the papers found on the body, I heard a voice at my side say ‘Are
you the chap who brought a man’s body to the monastry a little while
ago?’”
“Yes,” I replied. Something in his voice had sent an icy chill through
my veins. “Well, the man’s alive, and the fathers sent me to fetch you.”
“Alive! I gasped. Roger alive! Man, you know not what you say!”
“‘Perhaps I don’t,’ he answered, with a grin, ‘but I guess the fathers
do. They ought to know a dead man from a live one, they handle ’em often
enough.’”
“I sat down upon the ground beside the body I had been searching,
crushed by the sudden overthrow to all my plans. The first thought was
one of gladness that my brother lived, but only for a moment did I
rejoice. My good angel had hardly whispered ‘I am glad,’ ere the devil,
with his evil tongue, banished the tender, pleading voice, and the
wicked spirit within me which had lain dormant for a time, was aroused
to action. I sprang to my feet, and started toward the monastery,
leaving the man staring after me open-mouthed. I cannot tell you of the
mad thoughts which whirled through my brain as I climbed the steep hill
leading to the monastery. I was hardly conscious of them myself. Only
one thought was uppermost. Roger must die if he still lived. He should
not live to thwart me. I reached the monastery. A monk met me with a
cordial smile.
“‘Good news, my friend,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Your brother lives, and
there is cause for great hope.’”
“I dared not show my face. I buried it in my hands and whispered a
curse. The monk placed his hand upon my bowed head, thinking, no doubt,
that I was rejoicing, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness to Him who
had seen fit to restore my brother. He led me to an iron cot around
which several persons were gathered. ‘This is the injured man’s
brother,’ I heard him say, and then as I uncovered my face, a darkness
came before my eyes, and I felt myself reeling.
“When I came to myself, nobody was in the little cell but the good
father, and a man who proved to be a physician. As I looked enquiringly
at him he said: ‘You are all right now, my dear sir. The good news of
your brother’s recovery came too suddenly. You have passed through
exciting scenes to-day. No wonder they have affected you.’”
“The form on the cot lay still and without motion. Is that my brother? I
asked. ‘Yes,’ replied the doctor, ‘and he will live, but I fear his
brain has been injured. The skull is badly fractured, and I have been
obliged to remove a small part of the brain. It may be weeks ere he is
rational. He is blind, I see?’”
“Yes,” I answered mechanically, for I was hardly aware of the meaning of
his last question. “His words ‘He will live’—and—‘It maybe weeks ere he
is rational,’ were running through my head and repeating themselves
again and again. Oh, to keep the knowledge of his being alive from
Victoria until I knew how to act. The telegrams were by this time on the
way, if not already received. I must either apprise her immediately of
his recovery or keep it forever a secret, allowing her to believe him
dead. But—she might insist upon his body being brought home, and in that
case everything would be exposed. At that moment a horrible thought
flashed upon me. I swear to you, doctor, that it had not occurred to me
until then. Do you believe me?”
“I do,” solemnly answered the doctor, and the motionless woman sitting
within the shadow of the window drapery, bowed her head as if she too
had been implored to answer.
“I felt as if some unknown power controlled me,” continued Andrew. “I
think from that hour I was never again quite myself. Evil whisperings
sounded in my ears. My good angel came no more. My conscience slept. I
looked at the doctor who was bending over Roger, his kindly face beaming
with professional pride at having so skillfully saved a precious life.
“How soon can my brother be removed?” I asked.
“‘Not for some time, my dear sir,’ he answered. ‘Any undue excitement
would result in immediate death. Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary.
I shall be obliged to banish even you from this room for a few days. I
have given him a strong opiate, and I shall keep him under the influence
of it for at least a week.’ He will receive the best of care? I asked.
The doctor bowed his head. ‘There are no better nurses in the world than
these noble men whom you see about you. They have dedicated their lives
to the wants of the needy, the sick and dying. They receive no monetary
reward. They are not allowed to. The rich and poor are received on equal
terms. A millionaire is treated no better than the strolling beggar.
Each is given the best that there is to be had without a thought from
these men of being rewarded on this earth.’”
“I listened to the doctor’s words, meanwhile perfecting the horrible
daring plot working actively in my brain. I had a friend aboard the
train named John Saxon, I said, resolving at once to plunge into the
whirlpool of crime, from which once entered upon there could be no
escape. He was a dark-skinned man like myself, about thirty years of
age. He was accompanied by his wife to whom he had just been married. In
fact, they were on their bridal tour. She was a beautiful woman with
laughing blue eyes. I have seen nothing of them. Can it be that perhaps
they, too, have met with death?”
“The doctor looked up from Roger’s face which he had been studying.”
“‘Let us go down to the wreck and try to discover them dead or alive,’
he said. I will call one of the fathers to watch beside your brother. By
the way, I do not know your name. I would like to make a memorandum of
this case, and submit it to our medical journal.’”
“Williams,” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “Andrew Williams.
My brother’s name is Roger.”
“‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, taking a small book from his pocket and
jotting down what I had told him. ‘This case will be noted and watched
with a great deal of interest. Now come, we will search for your
friends. Pray God they may be alive and well.’”