"I might find that knife in my sleep, no matter where you hid it," she said. "Lock me up, instead, and then, if I pick the lock, I cannot reach the knife."
So there it remained, and as they used their dining-room for a sitting-room and as she had resolutely placed the beribboned and glittering display squarely opposite her favorite seat, she had full opportunity of benefiting by any deterrent influence it possessed. As to its possessing such an influence, she could only surmise and hope; however, she confessed that it fascinated her.
"I can't keep my eyes off it," she explained one evening, while they sat reading in the dining-room. "For the dozenth time to-night I've found my gaze creep up to that knife. Why is it? And the hateful thing makes me sleepy—just looking at it."
"Well," responded Beverton, grimly, "if it could only keep you asleep, it would be all right, wouldn't it?" Then, observing that the speech had pained her, he arose, kissed the flushed cheek, and added gently, "Don't look at it, girl; face the other way and get interested in your book. What are you reading?"
"It's so hard to get interested," she said, wearily, "in what you don't understand. It's a sea novel." She held up the book and turned the leaves. "What does topgallant clewlines mean, Tom?—fore-and-aft, clew-up and clew-down? And here's a word, 'mizzen.' And clew-garnet—what does that mean? It's a strange language."
"Blest if I know. Pick the story out. Never mind the descriptions."
They resumed their reading, and it was ten minutes later when Beverton, aroused by the unusual quiet, looked again at his wife. The book lay on her lap, held open by her hands, but she was not reading—she was staring up at the hardware glistening in the lamplight, with eyes that were wide-open, but almost as lightless as the eyes of a corpse. And as Beverton looked at them, the eyelids fluttered together and closed in sleep. Beverton watched, and in a moment they opened, with an expression in them that he had never seen before—so strange, hard, and murderous it seemed.
"Grace," said the startled man, rising to his feet, "are you awake?"
"Awake," she screamed—"screech" better describes the hard, raspy tone with which she answered him. "Aye, awake and ready—for eighteen hours, come eight bells; and all guns o' the port battery down the mizzen hatch, and all hands drunk but the cook. What's to do?"
"Wake up, Grace," he commanded.