“Do you think there is no retribution in the slow agony of a shattered mind—the long blank days of old age in a lunatic asylum, the apathy of a half-extinguished intellect varied by flashes of bitter memory? God help and pity such a criminal, for her punishment must be heavier than hemp and quick-lime.”
She seemed scarcely to hear him. She was walking up and down the room, her hands clenched, her brows contracted over the fixed eyes.
“I caught just one glimpse of her as we drove past; but that glimpse ought to have been enough,” she said. “I can see her face as we passed the lodge, looking out at us from the parlour window, within a few hours of my darling’s death—a pale vindictive face—yes, vindictive. I ought to have understood; I ought to have taken warning, and guarded my beloved one from her murderous hate.”
“What am I to say to your father, Juanita? I ought not to leave him long in doubt. Think what it is for a father to humiliate himself before his daughter—to sue for pardon.”
“Oh, but he must not do that. I have nothing to forgive. How could he understand that there could be such diabolical malignity in any human breast? How could he think that the wrong done by him would be revenged upon that innocent head? Oh, if she had gone a nearer way to revenge herself—if she had killed me, rather than him. It is such bitterness to know that my love brought him untimely death—that he might have been here now, happy, with long years of honour and content before him if he had chosen any other wife.”
“It is hopeless to think of what might have been, Nita. Your husband was happy in your love—and not unhappy in his death. Such a fate is far better than the dull and slow decay which closes many a fortunate life—the inch by inch dissolution of a protracted old age—the gradual extinction of mind and feeling—the apathetic end. You must not talk as if your husband’s death was the extremity of misfortune.”
“It was—for me. Can I forget what it was to lose him? Oh, there is no use in talking of my loss. I wanted to avenge his death. I have lived for that—and I am cheated of even that poor comfort.”
“What shall I say to your father?”
“Say that I will do nothing to injure him—or to distress my mother. I will remember that I am their daughter, as well as Godfrey’s widow. Good night, Theodore. You have done your uttermost to help me. We cannot help it, either of us, if Fate was against us.”
She gave him her hand, very cold, but with the firm grasp of friendship. The very touch of that hand told him he would never be more to her than a friend. Not so is a woman’s hand given when the impassioned heart goes with it.