Mrs. Porterfield just then brought in some warm tea and placed it on the table at the bed head. After a few moments delay, she left us alone together. The eyes of my wife were averted. The vial of prussic acid stood on the same table with the tea. I rose from the couch, interposed my person between it and the table—and, taking up the poison, deliberately poured three drops into the beverage. I never did anything more firmly. Yet I was not the less miserable, because I was most firm. My nerve was that of the executioner who carries out a just judgment. This done, I put the vial into my pocket. Julia then spoke to me. I turned to her with eagerness. I was prepared to cast the vessel of tea from the window. It was my hope that she was about to speak, though late, the necessary truths. But she only called to me to know if I had been to my office during the morning.
“Not since nine o'clock,” was my answer. “Why?”
“Nothing. But are you going to your office now, dear husband?”
“Not directly. I shall possibly be there in the course of the afternoon. What do you wish? Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing,” she replied; “but I will tell you to-morrow why I ask.”
“To-morrow!—tell me now, if it be anything of moment. Now! now is the appointed time!” The serious language of Scripture, became natural to me in the agonizing situation in which I stood.
“No! no! to-morrow will do. I will not gratify your curiosity. You are too curious, husband” and she turned from me, smiling, upon the couch.
I felt that what she might tell me to-morrow could have nothing to do with the affair between herself and Edgerton. THAT could be no object for jest and merriment. I turned from her slowly, with a feeling at my heart which was not exactly madness—for I knew then what I was doing—but it was just the feeling to make me doubtful how long I should be secure from madness.
“To-morrow will not do” I muttered to myself as I descended the stairs. “Too late!—too late!”