Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.
Not Room for Two.
The hunted man’s wife sat watching at her window hour after hour, as she had watched days and nights before—bitter, vindictive, dwelling on the cruelty, the blows and wrongs, from which she had suffered at this man’s hands, and from the woman who played the part of mother to him—jealous tyrant to her.
“I have forgiven so much,” she said, “and would forgive again—anything but this! So young, and handsome, and fair! He’ll find her again, and bring her back, and then I may go. Why didn’t he kill me outright?” she added bitterly, as she went slowly to the lamp, took it up, and held it so that she could gaze at her bruised face in the glass.
It was a handsome face, but bitterly vindictive now, as she gazed at the bruises and an ugly cut upon her lip.
“Better have killed me for letting her go. He hates me now. Yes,” she said sadly; “better do it at once—better do it.”
But she crossed the room again with a sigh to open the door and listen, habit mastering anger and bitterness, as a look of eagerness and longing such as had often been there before came into her face. It was the old anxious look with which she had watched for him who did not come. Then, by degrees, the look faded out, and her brow contracted as bitter thoughts prevailed.
It was getting late now, and she lit the candles in an automatic fashion, pausing at intervals to think. Then, going to the little sideboard, she took out a glass and the spirit decanter, half full of brandy, placing both on the sideboard ready before seating herself at the open window to listen. Nine o’clock struck, then ten, and the half-hour had chimed, but still he did not return.
There were a couple of figures, one at either end of the lane, but they did not attract her attention, and she still sat listening till a faint noise below made her start up and hurry to the door.
Yes, at last. Someone coming up the stairs two steps at a time. The door was flung open, and her husband entered hastily, looking pale and disordered. There was so jaded and despairing an aspect in the man’s eyes that the woman’s sympathies were aroused, her troubles were for the moment forgotten, and she laid her hand upon his arm.
“Back at last, John dear!” she said tenderly. “Are you tired?” And then something in his face startled her. “John dear!” she cried.
“Curse John!” he cried. “There, I have done with that masquerading. Here, quick—my little bag—a change of things!”
“Are you hurt?” she cried anxiously.
“Do you hear me?” he cried, and struck at her savagely with the back of his hand.
She staggered back with a low moan, but sprang to him the next moment, and threw her arms round his neck.
“John dearest,” she whispered, in a low, frantic tone, “for God’s sake tell me you are sorry you did that. For your own sake ask me to forgive you; it makes me mad!”
“Curse you, keep away!” he cried, flinging her off; but she staggered back, and tried to nestle in his breast, only to be flung off again. “Get me my clean things—quick!”
“No, no, not yet!” she cried, falling upon her knees and grasping at his hands. “John, dear John, one kind word; say one gentle word to me, pray, oh, pray!”
“Are you mad?” he said savagely, as he tried to release his hand.
“No; but you are driving me so!” she cried hoarsely. “I forgive you your infidelity, your unkindness—everything—the way in which you have wronged me. John—husband—for God’s sake, for your own sake, be kind to me now. You do not know the temptation that is on me.”
“To run away and leave me?” he said mockingly. “Pray go.” He stood glaring down at her for a moment, and then exclaimed, in a cold, cutting way: “Will you get me the things I want?”
“Yes, yes, dear—yes, my own love!” she cried excitedly; “in one minute. But John, husband, my heart is nearly broken. I am maddened by my wrongs.”
He must have been mad himself, for as she clung to him he struck her again, more savagely this time, and, with a shudder running through her whole frame, she cowered on the floor.
But it was only for the moment. She struggled up again, joining her hands together as she wailed once more:
“I ask you again, for our dead babe’s sake, John—husband—give me one kind word, and I will forgive all!”
“Do you want to drive me wild!” he yelled savagely. “I am not John Huish—I am not your husband. Out of my sight, or—”
He raised his hand again to strike her, but she did not flinch. She stood up, seeming as if turned to stone, and a sickly pallor appeared on her cheeks.
“There, quick; get me the brandy! I have a long way to go.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, as a low moan escaped her lips; “you have a long way to go.”
She fetched the brandy decanter and glass from the sideboard, placed them before him, and he poured out a goodly quantity, raised the glass, listened, and then put it down.
“Who’s below?” he said sharply, as he turned towards the door.
“Jane Glyne,” she said, moaning; and then once more she tried to clasp his neck.
“What’s the matter with you?” he cried mockingly, as he thrust her arm away, and, catching up the glass, he raised it to his lips.
“No, no!” she cried, her coldness giving way to a look of horror; “don’t drink it;” and she threw up her hands to seize the glass. But once more his hand fell heavily upon her, and she shrank away, covering her bruised face with her fingers, as he drained the glass and then dropped it, to shiver to atoms on the fender.
“What! That brandy?” he cried, with his face convulsed. “What have you given me to drink?”
“Death!” she said sternly, as she dropped her hands, to stare him full in the face.
He caught at the mantelpiece and steadied himself, his lips parting, but no words came. Then, with his countenance changing horribly, he said in a hoarse whisper:
“How long?”
She grasped his meaning, and shook her head. He smiled, and swung himself to the table, caught the decanter in his hand, and stood pointing.
“A glass—quick!”
She glided to the sideboard, and returned to place one before him. The neck of the decanter chattered loudly against the thin edge, and his teeth gnashed horribly as he poured out half the glass full, and then dropped the vessel, for the remainder to run gurgling out with a strange noise, as if the spirit within the decanter were dying. Then, grasping the glass, he raised it and held it out.
“Drink!” he said huskily—“drink!”
The woman stood motionless for a few moments, rigid, as if petrified. Then, without a word, she raised her hand, took the glass calmly, and raised it to her lips, when in a paroxysm of agony the dying man threw out his arms, the glass was dashed from her hand, and he fell heavily upon the floor. As he fell writhing upon the rug the door was thrust open, and a detective-sergeant and a couple of policemen entered the room.
“John Huish, alias Mark Riversley, I have a warrant—Good heavens!” The sergeant stopped, caught the decanter from the table, smelt it, and set it down. “Too late!” he exclaimed, as a strong odour of bitter almonds floated through the room. “Here—a doctor—quick!”
As one constable reached the door the man they sought uttered a low animal cry, writhed himself partly up, and caught at the woman’s hands as she sank upon her knees at his side.
“Too—late,” said the man faintly, as he threw up his head and seemed to be speaking to someone invisible to those present. “Your—fault, your sin—a curse—a curse!”
Those present glanced at one another and then at the woman who knelt there silent and motionless, as if carved in stone.
They thought him dead, but he struggled faintly, and the woman held his head upon her arm, as his eyes slowly turned upon her, and a smile played round his pinched blue lips.
She shuddered, and her brow knit as she bent her head to hear his dying curse.
“Only a dog, and a dog’s death,” he whispered—“a wolf—in my blood—cursed—cursed. Gentlemen, too late; poison; I took it myself. An accident—I— Ah! No room for us both. Good-bye!—my—”
He made a faint effort to throw one arm round the woman’s neck, but it fell lifeless by his side, and as a shudder ran through him a piteous cry rang through the room, and all turned to see that a wild-looking, haggard woman had entered the room.
“My poor, handsome boy!” she wailed. “Dead, dead!”