longer in a state to be conscious of an affectionate presence.  Bertha
was hesitating, apparently almost willing to believe his assurance and to
comply.  She looked round at the ghastly dying face, as if to read the
confirmation of that assurance, when for a moment the lowered eyelids
were raised again, and it seemed as if the eyes were looking towards
Bertha, but blankly.  A shudder passed through Bertha's frame, and she
returned to her station near the pillow, tacitly implying that she would
not leave the room.

The eyelids were lifted no more.  Once I looked at Bertha as she watched
the face of the dying one.  She wore a rich _peignoir_, and her blond
hair was half covered by a lace cap: in her attire she was, as always, an
elegant woman, fit to figure in a picture of modern aristocratic life:
but I asked myself how that face of hers could ever have seemed to me the
face of a woman born of woman, with memories of childhood, capable of
pain, needing to be fondled?  The features at that moment seemed so
preternaturally sharp, the eyes were so hard and eager--she looked like a
cruel immortal, finding her spiritual feast in the agonies of a dying
race.  For across those hard features there came something like a flash
when the last hour had been breathed out, and we all felt that the dark
veil had completely fallen.  What secret was there between Bertha and
this woman?  I turned my eyes from her with a horrible dread lest my
insight should return, and I should be obliged to see what had been
breeding about two unloving women's hearts.  I felt that Bertha had been
watching for the moment of death as the sealing of her secret: I thanked
Heaven it could remain sealed for me.

Meunier said quietly, "She is gone."  He then gave his arm to Bertha, and
she submitted to be led out of the room.

I suppose it was at her order that two female attendants came into the
room, and dismissed the younger one who had been present before.  When
they entered, Meunier had already opened the artery in the long thin neck
that lay rigid on the pillow, and I dismissed them, ordering them to
remain at a distance till we rang: the doctor, I said, had an operation
to perform--he was not sure about the death.  For the next twenty minutes
I forgot everything but Meunier and the experiment in which he was so
absorbed, that I think his senses would have been closed against all
sounds or sights which had no relation to it.  It was my task at first to
keep up the artificial respiration in the body after the transfusion had
been effected, but presently Meunier relieved me, and I could see the
wondrous slow return of life; the breast began to heave, the inspirations
became stronger, the eyelids quivered, and the soul seemed to have
returned beneath them.  The artificial respiration was withdrawn: still
the breathing continued, and there was a movement of the lips.

Just then I heard the handle of the door moving: I suppose Bertha had
heard from the women that they had been dismissed: probably a vague fear
had arisen in her mind, for she entered with a look of alarm.  She came
to the foot of the bed and gave a stifled cry.

The dead woman's eyes were wide open, and met hers in full recognition--
the recognition of hate.  With a sudden strong effort, the hand that
Bertha had thought for ever still was pointed towards her, and the
haggard face moved.  The gasping eager voice said--

"You mean to poison your husband . . . the poison is in the black cabinet
. . . I got it for you . . . you laughed at me, and told lies about me
behind my back, to make me disgusting . . . because you were jealous . . .
are you sorry . . . now?"

The lips continued to murmur, but the sounds were no longer distinct.
Soon there was no sound--only a slight movement: the flame had leaped
out, and was being extinguished the faster.  The wretched woman's heart-
strings had been set to hatred and vengeance; the spirit of life had
swept the chords for an instant, and was gone again for ever.  Great God!
Is this what it is to live again . . . to wake up with our unstilled
thirst upon us, with our unuttered curses rising to our lips, with our
muscles ready to act out their half-committed sins?

Bertha stood pale at the foot of the bed, quivering and helpless,
despairing of devices, like a cunning animal whose hiding-places are
surrounded by swift-advancing flame.  Even Meunier looked paralysed; life
for that moment ceased to be a scientific problem to him.  As for me,
this scene seemed of one texture with the rest of my existence: horror
was my familiar, and this new revelation was only like an old pain
recurring with new circumstances.

* * * * *

Since then Bertha and I have lived apart--she in her own neighbourhood,
the mistress of half our wealth, I as a wanderer in foreign countries,
until I came to this Devonshire nest to die.  Bertha lives pitied and
admired; for what had I against that charming woman, whom every one but
myself could have been happy with?  There had been no witness of the
scene in the dying room except Meunier, and while Meunier lived his lips
were sealed by a promise to me.

Once or twice, weary of wandering, I rested in a favourite spot, and my
heart went out towards the men and women and children whose faces were
becoming familiar to me; but I was driven away again in terror at the
approach of my old insight--driven away to live continually with the one
Unknown Presence revealed and yet hidden by the moving curtain of the
earth and sky.  Till at last disease took hold of me and forced me to
rest here--forced me to live in dependence on my servants.  And then the
curse of insight--of my double consciousness, came again, and has never
left me.  I know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard, their
half-wearied pity.

* * * * *

It is the 20th of September, 1850.  I know these figures I have just
written, as if they were a long familiar inscription.  I have seen them
on this pace in my desk unnumbered times, when the scene of my dying
struggle has opened upon me . . .

(1859)