The Garotters

Transcribed from the 1897 David Douglas edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
WILLIAM D. HOWELLS
Author’s Edition
EDINBURGH DAVID DOUGLAS, CASTLE STREET 1897
For leave to act , apply to the publisher
All rights reserved
Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. Constable for David Douglas
London: Simpkin, Marshall and Co.
At the window of her apartment in Hotel Bellingham, Mrs. Roberts stands looking out into the early nightfall. A heavy snow is driving without, and from time to time the rush of the wind and the sweep of the flakes against the panes are heard. At the sound of hurried steps in the anteroom, Mrs. Roberts turns from the window, and runs to the portière , through which she puts her head.
Mrs. Roberts: ‘Is that you, Edward? So dark here! We ought really to keep the gas turned up all the time.’
Mr. Roberts, in a muffled voice, from without: ‘Yes, it’s I.’
Mrs. Roberts: ‘Well, hurry in to the fire, do! Ugh, what a storm! Do you suppose anybody will come? You must be half frozen, you poor thing! Come quick, or you’ll certainly perish!’ She flies from the portière to the fire burning on the hearth, pokes it, flings on a log, jumps back, brushes from her dress with a light shriek the sparks driven out upon it, and continues talking incessantly in a voice lifted for her husband to hear in the anteroom. ‘If I’d dreamed it was any such storm as this, I should never have let you go out in it in the world. It wasn’t at all necessary to have the flowers. I could have got on perfectly well, and I believe now the table would look better without them. The chrysanthemums would have been quite enough; and I know you’ve taken more cold. I could tell it by your voice as soon as you spoke; and just as quick as they’re gone to-night I’m going to have you bathe your feet in mustard and hot water, and take eight of aconite, and go straight to bed. And I don’t want you to eat very much at dinner, dear, and you must be sure not to drink any coffee, or the aconite won’t be of the least use.’ She turns and encounters her husband, who enters through the portière , his face pale, his eyes wild, his white necktie pulled out of knot, and his shirt front rumpled. ‘Why, Edward, what in the world is the matter? What has happened?’