“Whatever I am, she was pure--too pure and good for this black world. Speak reverently of her! Although I loved her--and I tell you my love is justified--she was not guilty of any sin. She was only too faithful to her wifely vow--faithful in thought and deed. Again I tell you, speak reverently of her!”
“No hypocrisy can save her now,” said Haldane, sternly. “You have thrown aside the mask, as you say; it is useless to assume it again. I know everything--her guilt, and yours!”
“She was not guilty. You cannot believe it!”
“Why should I doubt it? The thing was a thousand times stronger than your proofs of Holy Writ. Now, if I said to you that she had confessed her guilt, what would you say?”
“Then, if she was innocent, your guilt is trebled, and you are her murderer.”
“Yes. You have been liberal in confession; I will follow your example. You saw her lying yonder? Calm, cold, and beautiful, was she not?--yes, as a sleeping infant. Shall I tell you how she died? By poison. By the deadliest of all poisons.”
“Poisoned?” cried the clergyman, raising his voice to a scream.
“Precisely. A painless death, though sure and sudden. You see, although I kept within my right, I was merciful. Death was better than disgrace, and so--I killed her!”
Santley clutched at Haldane--then, with a moan, sank swooning upon the floor.
When he recovered, he staggered to his feet, and looked around him. He was still there, in the room, which was now quite dark, but he was alone. He awoke as from death, with the cold sweat upon his forehead, his form shaking like a leaf. What a change the experience of the last hour had made in him! He felt as if he had been mad for years. As the sick horror of his position spread over his bewildered senses, he groaned aloud.
Then remembering where he was, and fearing the surrounding darkness, he groped towards the door.
Suddenly it opened, and Haldane himself, holding a lamp in his hand, appeared upon the threshold. As the light flashed upon the minister’s form, it showed a face horrible in its anguish and despair. With his hair wild and dishevelled, his neckcloth disarranged, his black frock suit disordered, Santley seemed transformed. His beauty was turned into ugliness, his elegance into coarseness; his head, no longer erect and proud, drooped between his shoulders like an old man’s.