"I tell you he did go, Maria! I followed him once, dressed in boy's clothes. He went in, and I heard him swearing that he loved her more than ever, and—and—" Her voice choked with fury a moment; then she continued, wildly: "Dead, thank Heaven—dead, and out of my way forever! Now he will be all my own! But it was very sudden, was it not, Maria?"
"Very suddint, missie," the old woman answered, sullenly. "Dere was a leetle baby born night afore last, and de mudder died afore morning."
"A baby born! My husband's, of course!" the sick woman cried, furiously; and it seemed as if her jealous passion would kill her, so terrible was the expression that distorted her beautiful face as Maria replied, in her sullen way:
"I ain't gwine to deny dat, missie, for dat 'ud make de dead gal seem worser dan she wer', and I ain't gwine to frow no mo' sin an' shame dan possible on dat pore thing layin' in her coffin wid her baby on her breast."
"So the miserable offspring of shame died, too. That is good! I hate it with the same hate I had for its mother!" the infuriated, maddened woman cried out, remorselessly; but before Maria could utter a single remonstrance, another sound, and one more startling than the solemn funeral-bell, broke upon their ears.
It was the loud reverberation of a pistol-shot within the house.
"Oh! what was that?" shrieked Mrs. Fielding, in terror.
Old Maria did not reply. She was waddling out of the room as fast as her age and obesity would permit. Obeying an unerring instinct, she made her way to the library, and flinging wide the door, crossed the threshold.
Then—
"Oh, Massa Charlie! Oh, my pore boy!" she cried out, in an agony of grief.