In the desperate effort to cast the picture from her paralysed grasp, the Bride awoke.
She was really awake at last, and lying, faint with the dews of remembered terror, upon her bed, her head upon her husband's shoulder.
Thank God, awake at last! How horrible that had been!
Clinging to him in terror at first, she presently extricated herself from the man's encircling arm, and switched on the light. She dared not lie in the darkness with the thoughts that assailed her. Never for one instant before had the possibility of the wife's self-destruction occurred to her. Yet, all at once, how probable, how almost certain it seemed.
Died by her own hand! How easy it would have been! An overdose of the opiate the doctor was giving her to ease her pain. And she, weary of life—life made suddenly hideous to her; all her foolish vanities killed, her delight in herself, her belief in her friend, her faith in her husband. The gilding all stripped from the bauble which till then had made her happy. How possible! Nay, was it possible longer to doubt it?
And who was responsible? The woman who lay in her place, staring out into the room which had witnessed that foolish, harmless life, which had witnessed that tragic death; and the man sleeping beside her. They two.
Slowly, lest she should disturb him, the Bride raised herself upon her elbow, looked upon the sleeping face.
It was a face still unfamiliar to her in sleep. The always close-shut mouth was open, the straight-cut upper lip was strained tightly over the gums with a look almost of suffering, the eyes and temples looked as if sunken in pain. Feeling her gaze upon him, the man's lids half lifted themselves, an incoherent word or two fell from the stretched lips, the head moved restlessly upon the pillow.
Did he too guess this thing? Did he know?
"If he does he will never tell it to me," the Bride said to herself, knowing well he would spare her that pain.