He went back to his chair again, however, and fought it out with
himself. Pah! what was it, after all, but to bring to a quicker
end a life that the doctors had all but declared gone? What _was_
it they had said? So deep was the intensity of his desire to go
back to that consultation of the two doctors and their verdict
that he hardly heard a faint movement in the room, a slow
stirring of the curtains that half hid the bed.
At last he remembered. If she were to live for a certain number
of hours there might be hope--a vague hope truly, said Dr.
Bland, and not to be depended on, but a hope. If not, she must
die. She had lived for many hours now, almost to the time
mentioned, and _still_ she breathed.
The nurse came to the door and opened it. He recollected himself
in a moment, but hardly dared turn his face to hers. He told her
by a motion of his hand, a softly muttered word, to go away; that
the patient was still doing well, that he had hopes, that he
wished to stay there. And the woman withdrew, praising him in her
heart as a husband full of love and grief and anguish.
It was a slight interruption, but it half maddened him for the
moment, although his iron nerve carried him through it.
He rose. The day was now at an end, and he lit a night-lamp with
a careful hand--a hand that never trembled; and then he went
again, and stared down at her. If she woke again to life there
would be no longer life for him. It was to be either he or she.
The face was lying helpless, looking up at him, as it were,
showing ghastly in the dim light. He had had no actual design in
his mind until his eyes rested on those lips, but then all at
once the means to the end became quite clear. His mind grew
bright as day. He saw it all! It would not take long, and it was
sure--and safe.
He went swiftly but noiselessly to a chest of drawers at the
farther end of the room, and drew out the top shelf--always
with a marvellous noiselessness. This drawer that usually--even
in the broad daylight--creaked loudly when opened, now beneath
the velvet fingers gave no sound whatever. He stooped forward,
peering into the drawer, moving a thing here and there, and
finally brought out something--a soft linen substance--a
handkerchief, apparently, and moved with it to the basin-stand
near him.
A squalid basin-stand of common deal. Certainly the poor,
detested creature now lying prone upon the bed, utterly at his
mercy, had not cost him much--had at least one virtue, that of
prudence. Of course, if she had cost him more, if she had brought
him by her extravagance to his last penny, she would have been of
some importance in his eyes; he might even have learned to see
something in her, in spite of her huge defects; but she had done
nothing beyond being ugly--_that_, it must be allowed, she had
done quite handsomely--and stupid, and vulgar, and all the rest
of it.
He raised the water-jug. It made a little sound, and he looked
behind him. No--no one had heard. That no one could see he was
sure. Who was there in the room save he--and--and that unsightly
object on the bed? He looked sharply, however, round the room,
peering here and there, as people will who _feel_ a presence yet
cannot see it; but he saw nothing.
He abandoned his first thought of pouring water into the basin,
and put back the jug very slowly into its original place. How
foolish that first thought was!
With another half-unconscious glance round him he lowered the
handkerchief into the jug--slowly, delicately--until the
water surrounded his hand and it. How cool the water was--how
refreshing! He would have a bath presently--_afterwards_. Cold
water was the best of all pick-me-ups.
He lifted the handkerchief, cautiously, yet a little drip fell
from it. One-two-three! They sounded like a knell from hell!
They terrified him--for a moment.
He glanced suddenly over his shoulder, once again to the bed
where that silent form lay. Had she heard? Had she known? He
thought he saw a movement of the curtains, but a second later he
dismissed the fancy with a deep indrawn breath.
He was in that state of mind now that even if she _had_ known--
if she had been capable of rising and denouncing him--he would
still have caught her by the throat and pressed her back upon her
pillows and deliberately strangled the life out of her. It was
decided. Fate had sent her so far upon her road, but now her
travelling was over, and the end of her was to be bitter and
ignominious and unknown.
The handkerchief was saturated. He went towards the bed and bent
down. The terrible open mouth, with the hideousness of it, seemed
to give him a demoniac courage. He folded the cloth and laid it
softly over it and the faintly breathing nostrils. He pressed the
damp covering down--down--moulding it to the nose and mouth
as one might who was taking a cast of some one dead and unknown
to him, and with quite as strong a calm and carefulness.
A moment--a frightful moment--and then she stirred, the big
head swayed from side to side. Darkham--white, rigid--watched
her as she moved in her terrible impotence, but still held the
cloth. It was but a momentary struggle, after all; suddenly it
ceased. She lay now, rigid, white--the cloth still upon her
face; her eyes had opened in the dying struggle and looked up at
him, pale, horrible. But her breath--her breath was gone. She
was dead!
A moment--a frightful moment--and then she stirred. It was
but a momentary struggle after all; suddenly it ceased. She was
dead!
He stood for a long time watching her. At least it seemed a long
time. He had released his hold of the death-cloth, but it still
lay on her face, covering the lips and nose, and leaving only
those frightfully glaring eyes to be seen. They were wide open,
and seemed fixed on him. He laid his hand upon her lids, and with
a brutal haste forced back the lids upon the dying eyes.
He drew in his breath sharply, and leaning against one of the
four posts, compelled himself to listen--to watch.
Not a sound in the house. And not a sound here, either. The
breathing had ceased--was still. All was over. Those men had
been right, then. There was so little life left in her that
recovery was impossible. If he had only waited, nature would have
done its own work unaided.
Once again that mad rush of exultation ran within her veins. Once
again he sat in the room with Agatha Nesbitt--saw her, listened
to her charming voice. He stooped over the woman in the bed, and
in a wild ecstasy tore the murderous cloth from off her face. A
smothered yell of triumph broke from him. She was dead--dead--
dead!