And evidently thinks so himself, from his words spoken in slow, choking utterance,—
“Richard Darke—you have killed—murdered me!”
“I meant to do it,” is the unpitying response.
“O Heavens! You horrid wretch! Why—why—”
“Bah! what are you blubbering about? You know why. If not, I shall tell you—Helen Armstrong, After all, it isn’t jealousy that’s made me kill you; only your impudence, to suppose you had a chance with her. You hadn’t; she never cared a straw for you. Perhaps, before dying, it may be some consolation for you to know she didn’t. I’ve got the proof. Since it isn’t likely you’ll ever see herself again, it may give you a pleasure to look at her portrait. Here it is! The sweet girl sent it me this very morning, with her autograph attached, as you see. A capital likeness, isn’t it?”
The inhuman wretch stooping down, holds the photograph before the eyes of the dying man, gradually growing dim.
But only death could hinder them from turning towards that sun-painted picture—the portrait of her who has his heart.
He gazes on it lovingly, but not long. For the script underneath claims his attention. In this he recognises her handwriting, well-known to him. Terrible the despair that sweeps through his soul, as he deciphers it:—
“Helen Armstrong.—For him she loves.”
The picture is in the possession of Richard Darke. To him have the sweet words been vouchsafed!