A bland, autocratic martinet: smiling, inexorable! Poor, pale Ettie grew thinner and wanner under her law daily, while Maisie’s temper, naturally docile, was being spoiled before one’s eyes by persistent, needless thwarting.
As spring came on, however, I began to hope that things were really mending. Le Geyt looked brighter; some of his own careless, happy-go-lucky self came back again at intervals. He told me once, with a wistful sigh, that he thought of sending the children to school in the country—it would be better for them, he said, and would take a little work off dear Clara’s shoulders; for never even to me was he disloyal to Clara. I encouraged him in the idea. He went on to say that the great difficulty in the way was…Clara. She was so conscientious; she thought it her duty to look after the children herself, and couldn’t bear to delegate any part of that duty to others. Besides, she had such an excellent opinion of the Kensington High School!
When I told Hilda Wade of this, she set her teeth together and answered at once: “That settles it! The end is very near. He will insist upon their going, to save them from that woman’s ruthless kindness; and she will refuse to give up any part of what she calls her duty. He will reason with her; he will plead for his children; she will be adamant. Not angry—it is never the way of that temperament to get angry—just calmly, sedately, and insupportably provoking. When she goes too far, he will flare up at last; some taunt will rouse him; the explosion will come; and…the children will go to their Aunt Lina, whom they dote upon. When all is said and done, it is the poor man I pity!”
“You said within twelve months.”
“That was a bow drawn at a venture. It may be a little sooner; it may be a little later. But—next week or next month—it is coming: it is coming!”
June smiled upon us once more; and on the afternoon of the 13th, the anniversary of our first lunch together at the Le Geyts, I was up at my work in the accident ward at St. Nathaniel’s. “Well, the ides of June have come, Sister Wade!” I said, when I met her, parodying Caesar.
“But not yet gone,” she answered; and a profound sense of foreboding spread over her speaking face as she uttered the words.
Her oracle disquieted me. “Why, I dined there last night,” I cried; “and all seemed exceptionally well.”
“The calm before the storm, perhaps,” she murmured.
Just at that moment I heard a boy crying in the street: “Pall mall Gazette; ’ere y’are; speshul edishun! Shocking tragedy at the West-end! Orful murder! ’Ere y’are! Spechul Globe! Pall Mall, extry speshul!”
A weird tremor broke over me. I walked down into the street and bought a paper. There it stared me in the face on the middle page: “Tragedy at Campden Hill: Well-known Barrister Murders his Wife. Sensational Details.”
I looked closer and read. It was as I feared. The Le Geyts! After I left their house, the night before, husband and wife must have quarrelled, no doubt over the question of the children’s schooling; and at some provoking word, as it seemed, Hugo must have snatched up a knife—“a little ornamental Norwegian dagger,” the report said, “which happened to lie close by on the cabinet in the drawing-room,” and plunged it into his wife’s heart. “The unhappy lady died instantaneously, by all appearances, and the dastardly crime was not discovered by the servants till eight o’clock this morning. Mr. Le Geyt is missing.”
I rushed up with the news to Nurse Wade, who was at work in the accident ward. She turned pale, but bent over her patient and said nothing.