What was it they had said, those two? that if—if—he pressed his hands, both of them, to his head—that if she lasted until morning she might recover! Fools! She would not recover. Death was on her face when last he saw her. Pshaw! he was a better judge than either of them. Bland—an old man, too old; and Dillwyn—a young idiot, who followed his leader naturally! But he—he knew!—he who was in the prime of life, and had studied death—and life—in all their varied ways.
Yes, he knew! Siva, the Destroyer, lay hovering above the woman —whom the law called his wife—with outspread wings, awaiting the moment to descend and clutch his prey. Soon—soon—let it be!
Oh, to be delivered from her! From this creature who made life a torture; who had dragged him with a chain all these interminable years—the years of a marriage that had damned him! When he could have risen, that chain had nailed him to the earth, had clipped his soaring wings, had withered every moment of his life. Truly a young man starting in life should look well to the way he is going, and should choose a wife meet for him. Marriage is not for an hour, but for all eternity—sometimes!
This one, however! It will not last so long. This marriage will end soon, thank—-
He broke off abruptly. Who was he thanking?
He rose suddenly and went to the door. He would go upstairs and see how things were going on. He shook a little as he put his foot upon the first step of the stairs, and looked back as if he would willingly change his mind and return to the library. But he overcame himself, and went steadily upstairs.
So he went, and entered the room, and beckoned to the nurse in charge that she need not stay. She rose at his bidding, and slipped through the farther door, glad enough to get away for and hour or so. Her employer was a doctor and the husband of the sick woman under her charge, and so she felt safe in leaving her. Besides which, it was a hopeless case. The nurse had seen many such in the London hospitals, and though some as bad had pulled through, still, the percentage lay the other way.
Darkham went up to where the silent figure lay, and ruthlessly pulled back one of the curtains at the end of the old-fashioned bedstead.
The light from the dying day streamed in through the window, and lay on the dull, yellow face that rested on the pillow. It lit it up and showed it in all its ugliness.
Darkham bent over it—lower—lower still, and looked—and looked again. Was there a change? was there?