It was over—done! He was free! He reeled against the bedpost and tried to collect himself—to check the terrible laughter that rose to his lips. He was free at last.
His curious excitement came to an end at last, and he roused himself. He looked at the clock, and found that it was quite an hour since—since that. He turned his eyes then on his wife's face and saw it was quite calm. There was nothing to wonder at— no sign of a struggle. There had been very little struggle indeed, life was so low within her. He assured himself that she looked natural enough, and touched the bedclothes here and there. Then he rang the bell violently, thrusting the wet handkerchief into the inside pocket of his coat as he did so; and presently the nurses came to the door, stepping softly, delicately, yet with fear on their faces. To them he told the sad news. He feared he had been a little drowsy, and she—his voice broke—must have passed away in her sleep. His manner was perfect, and they were all impressed by it, especially the nurse whom he had dismissed some hours ago, telling her he would sit up with the patient. She said afterwards that he looked heart-broken, but so calm—the calmness of despair, no doubt.
They went with him to the bed, and bent over the silent form. There was no breath coming now from the parted lips; the features looked rigid. The face was placid, stern, with that Sphinx-like expression on it that the dead so often wear.
Darkham himself lifted the arms—oh, so tenderly!—and crossed them on her breast. Tears rose to the nurses' eyes. How he had loved her!
"Go!" he said to them in a broken voice. "I shall watch here."
They heard him lock the door after them, and felt sad with pity at the thought of the lonely vigil the broken-hearted husband was about to keep in the dim death-chamber.
He listened intently to the sound of their departing footsteps, then cautiously opened a second door that led into an adjoining room. It was a sort of dressing-room, that had been used by his wife as a place for lumber of all sorts. It was untidy, but it was large, and sitting at the far end of it one might feel far away from the bedroom outside. He struck a match with a cautious hand—a hand that it gave him a sensation of admiration to see did not tremble, and lit a candle. This he placed on the floor behind a brass-bound trunk of gigantic size that effectually hid its rays from any one who might be outside the windows to-night.
He sat down, prepared to watch for the dawn. Well, it came early, anyway. He seated himself on a box, and began to arrange his plans. There was nothing to condemn him anywhere. She had been so far gone already that the slight stoppage of her breath that he had occasioned had made no effect upon her. Her face was quite calm and placid; and he could quote the words of Bland and Dillwyn at any moment. Besides, why should he be suspected? Who was there to suspect him?
As for himself—his manner—he could rely upon that. He held up his hand before him, and noticed boastingly that it was firm, and strong, and steady. After all, what had he done? Merely hastened the departure of a life—not taken it. Why, if he had taken it years ago, who could blame him? That devil, thwarting his every movement, destroying his life, killing him soul and body—of what use was she to the world? A mere clod, swelling the list of those who dam the flow of the tide that leads to all light and progress. Why, it was a righteous deed!
His head was resting against a wardrobe. His eyes closed. His thoughts were brilliant to-night; they flew here and there. The candle was burning dimly, and before he knew it he had lost consciousness—he was asleep.