I felt I had made a mistake.
"I--I mean nothing. Only--only I think Hughes was as much to blame as I was."
Hughes took Pybus away. They went to Mrs. Chalmers. So far as I could judge, the lady was rapidly sinking into a lethargic condition. I remained standing where I was. I began gradually to realise my situation--the approaching tragedy in which, by fate or circumstance, I was cast as an actor. A strange leaden feeling seemed to be stealing over me, but, in spite of it, I began to understand that at any moment the drawing-room, this drawing-room, my drawing-room, might be strewed with corpses. I knew nothing of the effects of laudanum poisoning, but Hughes seemed to be surprised that we were not all of us dead already. Here was Margaret, the woman I loved best in all the world, upon my right. There was her aunt, for whom, I own, my love was less, upon the couch. There was old Pybus. That old man's blood was also on my hands.
What would they call me? A suicide? The irony! In the full flush of health and strength, with fortune, all the world before me, and a wife. A wife whom I loved with a great fulness of love which was quite old-fashioned. I had wrought this hecatomb. I felt impelled to scream aloud. To warn my victims of the frightful fate which was stealing fast upon them, and of which they were still unconscious.
Someone touched me on the arm. I turned. It was Margaret!
"George, what is the matter?"
"Margaret!"
My voice trembled. There was a choking in my throat. I wished to take her in my arms before them all. It might be a last embrace.
"George, tell me, what is wrong?"
I made an effort to pull myself together.