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.