Sewell started,—a sudden thought flashed across him; if he were to kill the fellow as he stood there, how should he conceal the murder and hide the corpse? It was quick as a lightning flash, this thought, but the horror of the consequences so overcame him that a cold sweat broke out over his body, and he staggered back to a seat, and sank into it exhausted and almost fainting.
“Don't take it to heart that way, sir,” said the fellow, gazing at him. “Will I get you a glass of water?”
“Yes. No—no; I'll do without it. It's passing off. Wait here for a moment; I 'll be back presently.” He arose as he spoke, and moved slowly away. Entering the house, he ascended the stairs and made for his wife's room. As he reached the door, he stopped to listen. There was not a sound to be heard. He turned the handle gently, and looked in. One shutter was partly open, and a gleam of the breaking daylight crossed the floor and fell upon the bed on which she lay, dressed, and fast asleep,—so soundly, indeed, that though the door creaked loudly as he pushed it wider, she never heard the noise. She had evidently been sitting up with a sick man, and was now overcome by fatigue. His intention had been to consult with her,—at least to ask her to assist him with whatever money she had by her,—and he had entered thus stealthily not to startle her; for somehow, in the revulsion of his mind from the late scene of outrage and insult, a sense of respect, if not of regard, moved him towards her, who, in his cruelest moments, had never ceased to have a certain influence over him. He looked at her as she slept; her fine features, at rest, were still beautiful, though deep traces of sorrow were seen in the darkened orbits and the lines about that mouth, while three or four glistening white hairs showed themselves in the brown braid over her temple. Sewell sat down beside the bed, and, as he looked at her, a whole life passed in review before him, from the first hour he met her to that sad moment of the present. How badly they had played their game! how recklessly misused every opportunity that might have secured their fortune! What had he made of all his shrewdness and ready wit? And what had she done with all her beauty, and a fascination as great as even her beauty? It was an evil day that had brought them together. Each, alone, without the other, might have achieved any success. There had been no trust, no accord between them. They wanted the same things, it is true, but they never agreed upon the road that led to them. As to principles, she had no more of them than he had; but she had scruples—scruples of delicacy, scruples of womanhood—which often thwarted and worried him, and ended by making them enemies; and here was now the end of it! Her beauty was wasted, and his luck played out, and only ruin before them.
And yet it calmed him to sit there; her softly drawn breathing soothed his ruffled spirit. He felt it as the fevered man feels the ice-cold water on his brow,—a transient sense of what it would be to be well again. Is there that in the contemplation of sleep—image as it is of the great sleep of all—that subdues all rancor of heart,—all that spirit of conflict and jar by which men make their lives a very hell of undying hates, undying regrets?
His heart, that a few moments ago had almost burst with passion, now felt almost at ease; and in the half-darkened room, the stillness, and the calm, there stole over him a feeling of repose that was almost peacefulness. As he bent over her to look at her, her lips moved. She was dreaming; very softly, indeed, came the sounds, but they seemed as if entreating. “Yes,” she said,—“yes—all—everything—I consent. I agree to all, only—Cary—let me have Cary, and I will go.”
Sewell started. His face became crimson in a moment. How was it that these words scattered all his late musings, as the hurricane tears and severs the cloud-masses, and sends them riven and shattered through the sky? He arose and walked over to the table; a gold comb and two jewelled hair-pins lay on the glass; he clutched them coarsely in his hand, and moved away. Cautiously and noiselessly he crept down the stairs, and out into the garden. “Take these, and make your money of them; they are worth more than your claim; and mind, my good fellow,—mind it well, I say, or it will be worse for you,—our dealings end here. This is our last transaction, and our last meeting. I 'll never harm you, if you keep only out of my way. But take care that you never claim me, nor assume to know me; for I warn you I'll disown you, if it should bring you to the gallows. That's plain speaking, and you understand it.”
“I do, every word of it,” said the fellow, as he buttoned up his coat and drew his hat over his eyes. “I 'm taking the 'fiver,' too, as it's to be our last meetin'. I suppose your honor will shake hands with me and wish me luck. Well, if you won't, there's no harm done. It's a quare world, where the people that's doin' the same things can't be friends, just because one wears fine cloth and the other can only afford corduroy. Good-bye, sir,—good-bye, any-how;” and there was a strange cadence in the last words no description can well convey.
Sewell stood and looked after him for a moment, then turned into the house, and threw himself on a sofa, exhausted and worn out.