“Vile, unfeeling wretches!” I exclaimed, “is it thus you plot and plan for the death of your husbands! Is it thus you form schemes for reveling in the ill-deserved wealth which may then be yours! With suppressed laughter you would close the coffin-lid, and dance over our scarce cold remains, shouting, Ho-ho-ho! for the merry Life Insurance!”
Before I had done speaking, poor Fanny was stretched senseless upon the floor, while frightened and amazed her companion fled the room.
And so did I. Leaving my wife in a state of insensibility, I flew to my chamber. I raved and tore like a madman—but remember, I was not mad! No, it was not madness—for madness utters it knows not what, and memory takes no heed; but I—I knew all—no, I was not mad—I am not mad!
From that day I saw poor Fanny’s heart was broken. She breathed no complaint—she uttered no reproach, not even from those languid eyes which ever beamed on me with so much tenderness—wretch, infamous wretch that I was; but I saw the fatal blow was given. And I also saw, with a fiendish joy, that she was afraid of me—yes, afraid—ha! ha! She thought me mad—me! How I reveled in this idea; what gambols I held with my demon, in my joy that I could affright her timid soul—how I gloried in it! Her monomany was such a farce, to believe me mad! I knew she would die sooner than complain of my treatment—and the demon shouted, “Take your revenge now for the happiness she expects from your death; give ten thousand deathly stabs to her heart by your unkindness, for the ten thousand dollars she will finger! Leave her no peace—waste her to a skeleton, and then—let her enjoy the Life Insurance—ha! ha!”
Sometimes I resolved I would live until the day the policy expired, and then die—cheat her at last.
There were seasons, however, when I threw off the mask of the madman—for, remember, I was not mad—when I would take my Fanny to my arms with love and kindness, when I would entreat her to forgive me, while with her true woman’s heart she would bless me and pardon my guilt toward her.
On the first of February the policy on my life would expire. For some weeks I had been uniformly kind to my poor wife. The demon had departed for a season, but you may be sure he was not far off. As the first of the month drew near she became more cheerful—her step was lighter, and a smile, as of old, played around her sweet mouth.
It was the afternoon of the 31st of January that I drew Fanny to my bosom as I reclined upon the sofa, and carelessly playing with her beautiful ringlets as I spoke, said,
“Do you know, dearest Fanny, the policy on my life expires to-morrow, and yet you see here I am hale and hearty—what a pity!”
“Thank God, my dear Henry, that you are so!” she replied, tenderly embracing me, “thank God!” and tears glistened on her long curling lashes.