No: only justice, was whispered again to his ear—only justice, and then he would be at rest. It was not right that he should die, but the destroyer of his happiness; and then his mind would be at ease—there would be peace for him for many years to come.
He smiled now: it was like comfort in a dire hour of need; and when the upbraidings of conscience would have made themselves heard, they were crushed down and stifled; for Sir Murray Gernon had been keeping his house swept and garnished for the reception of the wicked spirits, and they had now fully seized upon the offered abode. He smiled, for he thought that he now saw a way out of his difficulties, and that he had but to design some means for removing his false wife from his path to commence a new life.
How should it be? he thought. Should he contrive a boating party upon the great lake? Boats had before now been upset, and their occupants drowned. Such accidents were not at all uncommon. Or there might be some terrible catastrophe with the spirited horses of the carriage; the part of the Castle where her ladyship slept might catch fire at a time when a hampered lock and fastened window precluded escape; or, better still, there was poison!
The evil spirit must at that time have had full possession of the citadel, for it was with a baleful glare in his eyes that Sir Murray Gernon strode up and down his room, stepping softly, as if fearing to interrupt the current of his thoughts—thoughts that, in his madness, seemed to refresh the thirsty aridity of his soul. After all these months of misery, had at last, then, come the solution of his difficulty? and he laughed—and laughed savagely—as he sat down once more to plan.
Mercy? What had he to do with mercy? What mercy had they had upon his life? Had they not blighted it when he was a calm, trusting, loving man, searing his spirit with something more burning and corroding than the hottest iron—the sharpest acid? Let them seek for mercy elsewhere: his duty was to dispense justice, and he would be just!
Who could gainsay it? Was it not written in the Book that the punishment for the crime was death—that the sinners should be stoned with stones until they died? Not that he would stone them: his should be a quiet, insidious vengeance—one that the world should not suspect, and he would plot it out in time.
But what if she were, after all, innocent?
He tore that thought from his heart, accusing himself of cowardice, and of seeking a way out of what would be the path to a new life. No; there was no innocence there. His would be a crusade against guilt; and he vowed a fearful vow that he would carry out his vengeance to the end.
Should it be by poison?
“Tap! tap! tap!” Three distinct, sharp touches as of a nail upon the window-pane made Sir Murray start, shivering, from his guilty reverie.