He clutched the chimney-piece and glared at that awful apparition. Had she come back? Was he never to be rid of her? Would she be always at his side, showing herself when—he grew almost frantic here—when his young bride was at his side?
His horror compelled movement. He loosed his desperate grasp upon the mantelpiece, and, like a drunken man, staggered forward. As he did so, the apparition stirred, and a terrible cry sounded through the room.
"Sho!"
It was like a battle-cry. As it reached his ear, Darkham stood still. All at once he knew—knew everything; the boy had been in the room that night, and had seen, and in a strange way understood.
He laughed aloud. It was quite safe, that secret. The boy could neither speak nor write, and as for her—what a fool he was! —why, she was too dull to find her way back to earth. He laughed again at this conceit, so glad he was at the solution of this ridiculous affair. He must be out of order, in want of a tonic, to have such absurd fancies.
In the meantime, he advanced upon his son. Sitting out there on the veranda, the idiot had conceived a splendid plan. He would lay this white thing over his face and go in and see his father; perhaps if he did his father would understand, and be frightened, and give "Sho" back to him. He had certainly taken her away. Heaven knows how this hope arose! But he crept in noiselessly, and sat crouching in the comer waiting for his father to see him, with the handkerchief laid across his mouth and nose exactly as he had seen it lying across hers. He sat there a long time, waiting for his plan to work, before Darkham turned and saw him.
Hatred, too, was in the heart of Darkham—a very madness of rage. He seized the boy and held him as in a vice, and leant over him, breathing hard, as if thinking what he should do with him. The devil of murder once more rose within him. He loosened one hand and laid it on his son's throat. He tightened his grasp!
In another moment he found himself dashed backwards against the wall. His head had come against it with astounding force, and for a second he was half stunned. He stood there panting. That creature, half his size, was stronger than he! His first thought was amazement. And the most curious thing of all was that he felt no resentment. The boy was strong! After all, Edwy could do something. He could conquer—he could kill!
The idiot had disappeared, but near where he had stood a white object could be seen. Darkham knew it at once. It was the handkerchief with which he had helped is wife to heaven. He stooped and picked it up. In spite of his hardihood, he felt a sense of strong repulsion as he touched it. Her life-blood seemed do be frozen into it. He compelled himself to open it, however, and look at it. Her name was in the corner, coarsely worked with red thread. It was just like any other of her handkerchiefs, yet he could have sworn it was the one. The boy must have picked it up that night. It must have fallen from his breast-pocket as he bent over the dead form upon the floor.
Well, there was nothing in it to incriminate him; still, it would be as well to get rid of it. The fire had been laid in the grate, but not lighted. He dropped the handkerchief on the table, and went to find some matches on the mantelpiece. With these he stooped and lit the dry kindling, and soon the fire began to roar up the chimney.