Читать книгу On the Brink of a Chasm: A record of plot and passion онлайн

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“Good!” she cried. “It is all right. I thought I could do it, and I have. Dr. Tarbot imagined he would be even with me. He is not; I am his master. What is about to happen to-night will come upon him as a blow when he least expects it. Yes, all is well; I feather my own nest; I receive that reward for which I have lost my soul. I prepare for the evil day. I know what I am about.”

As these thoughts flew through the woman’s mind she went over to the wicker trunk at the other end of the room and opened it. The trunk was of a peculiar shape—much longer than is ordinarily made. From this receptacle she took out bales of cotton wool and several iron weights. She wrapped the wool round the weights and filled the coffin with them.

When she had put in enough wool and iron to make up the probable weight of the child, she screwed on the lid again, and having done so, bent over the little body. The color was still in the cheeks, although the cheeks were cold, and the eyes remained firmly shut. Not a breath passed the lips, not a movement was apparent; still, the woman felt quite satisfied. She gave a further sigh of intense relief, and throwing an eider-down quilt over the blankets, left the room, taking good care to lock the door of the chamber of death after her. She went the entire length of a long corridor and paused outside Mrs. Pelham’s room. The other nurse had arrived and was already in charge. Barbara Evershed was standing near the door. Barbara had seen the undertaker’s men bringing up the little coffin, and her eyes were red from a fresh burst of tears.