An older woman might not have obeyed the summons, and might have realized that Hester Crowdie was to all intents and purposes mad, since it could not be supposed that she had planned a tragic scene, with a theatrical instinct nowhere at fault, even in a single detail. But there was something really terrible and grand in it, as it struck Katharine; and there was the grim reality of death lying there and vouching for the widowed woman’s sincerity. To those not familiar with the dead, nothing can seem like comedy in their silent presence. To those for whom death has lost all horror, there is scarcely anything but comedy, anywhere.
Katharine obeyed and went nearer, but not as near as Hester herself. Instinctively she held back her skirts, as though fearing even the contact of the carpet on which Crowdie lay. Her right hand she still carried in a scarf.
Hester’s fixed gaze met her again, and she was conscious that her own eyes were uncertain. There was an irresistible something which drew them to the dead man’s face. But when Hester spoke again the young girl looked at her.
“Katharine Lauderdale, this is your doing, and this is what you have done to me.”
The words came clearly, like those she had spoken before, monotonously and distinctly, as though she had learned them by rote. Katharine started at first, and opened her eyes wider, as though doubting whether she were in her senses. But she found no word to say, though her lips were parted.
“You have killed my husband. You have destroyed my life. I have brought you here to see what you have done.”
Katharine did not start this time, but she drew back a little, with an indescribable horror that was not fear.
“You must be mad,” she said, in a low voice, keeping her eyes on Hester’s.
A strange, fantastic smile played upon the pale lips, and looked more than unnatural in the yellow glare of the candles.
“I wish I were mad,” she said.