But he did not spend a great deal of thought on how other people would regard what he was about to do. As he crept down the hall with the knife in his hand, his chief sensation was a premonitory itch, a salty tang of pleasure in the doing of the deed itself. When hatred comes in where love has gone out, there may be a kind of voluptuary delight in the act of murder. Very carefully he opened the door of her room. And then he smiled to himself, and entered noisily; for what was the need of being careful about waking up a woman who was already dead? He did not care whether he killed her in her sleep or not;--indeed, if she wakened and begged for her life, he thought it might add a certain zest to the business. He should enjoy hearing her plead. He would not mind prolonging things. But things were not prolonged. His hand and the muscles of his forearm had tensed so often with the thought, with the idea, that the first blow went home. She never waked. VII |He got the box, and opened it. Inside was a long envelope, and written on that were the words: “To be opened by my husband only after my death.” That time had come! Within the envelope was a letter. It was dated on the day of his return from his western trip, a few months before. He read: “Dick, I love you! “Does it seem strange to you that I should write it down? “Listen, Dickie dear--I _had_ to write it! I couldn't tell you when I was alive--but I just had to tell you, too. And now that I am dead, what I say will come to you with all of its sweetness increased; and all of its bitterness left out! It will, now that I am dead--or if you die first, you will never see this. This is from beyond the grave to you, Dickie dear, to make all your life good to you afterwards! “Now, listen, dear, and don't be hard on me. “When I married you, Dickie, I _didn't_ love you! You were wild about me. But I only _liked_ you very much. It wasn't really love. It wasn't what you _deserved_. But I was only a girl, and you were the first man, and I didn't know things; I didn't know what I _should have_ felt. “Later, when I realized how very much you cared, I was ashamed of myself. I grew to see that I had done wrong in marrying you. Wrong to both of us. For no woman should marry a man she doesn't love. And I was ashamed, and worried about it. You were so good to me! So sweet--and you never suspected that I didn't care like I should. And because you were so good and sweet to me, I felt _worse_. And I made up my mind you should _never_ know! That I would be everything to you any woman could be. I tried to be a good wife. Wasn't I, Dickie, even then? “But I prayed and prayed and prayed. 'O God,' I used to say, 'let me love him like he loves me!' It was five years, Dickie, and I _liked_ you more, and _admired_ you more, and saw more in you that was worth while, every week; but still, no miracle happened. “And then one morning _a miracle did happen!_