I am allergic to most of the popular new remedies, so my doctor has had to fall back on an old standby that is very efficient. There is one drawback, though — the stuff is incredibly bitter.
But I have thought of a way. I have introduced the nightcap cocktail, my own invention, a drink before bedtime. And what odd mixtures I roguishly concoct and proffer for her approval. They have been getting more and more exotic, and, while Sybilla says she likes them, I think that is only to please me. No matter, as long as she drinks them. I have been saving the best for the last. It will disguise anything and will, I am sure numb the tastebuds for hours afterwards...
It will be soon. To-day I discovered Sybilla in a serious act of disobedience. She has flouted my authority. Hitherto, she has been too clever for me, but I know now that my instincts were all too sound. I am really glad to have this final proof of her perfidy. It is true that a man cannot call his mind or soul his own, with such a woman in the house.
Yesterday, I went to the city to see an editor of one of the periodicals I write for. It was a business trip. There was no reason why I should take Sybilla. Besides, I needed to get away alone, to assert myself. I told her that I would stay in town overnight at a hotel and come back late to-day.
Instead, I returned this morning — and I caught her. As I walked into the house, she was just coming out of my den!
She was frowning, and, when she saw me watching her, she turned quite pale, then blushed. I said nothing. I just looked at her.
I had to admire her. Her voice faltered, but only for an instant, as she said, “I thought I ought to see if the drapes in the den needed cleaning, Horace.”
I fingered the desk drawer-key in my pocket. What a blessing that I am always careful, and never forget to lock that drawer!
I did not return her smile. “Mrs. Tibbet will take care of such things, my dear, as she always has,” I told her coldly.
Mrs. Tibbet is old and wiry, with whiskers on her chin. She is unlovely, but clean, indefatigable and taciturn. She comes in every day and leaves after the dishes are done in the evenings. She has served me thus for years.
Sybilla tried again. “I thought perhaps you might like me to... since you don’t like your den disturbed.”
The inference being, of course, that I would prefer her in my sanctum, poking about, instead of the ignorant Mrs. Tibbet, who has no interest in anything literary and can barely read!
I made myself quite clear, saying, “We’ll leave things as they are. I’m used to Mrs. Tibbet, and she is completely trustworthy. Besides, I have no wish to offend her.”
Sybilla’s hand was in the pocket of her dress, and I could see that she was clenching it tightly. Then she asked me something that astonished me. “What was your mother like, Horace?”
“She was a fine woman,” I said, and then — God knows why — I blurted out. “She managed me!”
“But I don’t, you know.” Sybilla said.
For the first time, I felt that I was really reading the expression in her eyes — a mixture of patience and pity. It is, I know, a woman’s way when in the wrong, to pity the man who is in the right!
I went into the den. Of course, the first thing I did was to unlock the drawer. Everything was as I had left it — and the drawer was locked. Sybilla may be a witch, but I doubt that even she can open a lock by incantation.
I am horribly shaken. I cannot believe that I have done it at last. The night has not yet passed, but I feel as if I have aged years in these few hours.
Before bedtime, I made the cocktails, one for her and one for me. I was careful about hers. I gave her enough to put her to sleep forever, but not so much that the possibility of an accidental overdose would be incredible. Afterward, I planned to remove all traces of the cocktail and substitute for it a glass rinsed out with a little of the sleeping medicine. I would tell the doctor, quite frankly, that she had been in the habit of borrowing it lately, as she had not been sleeping well.
Sybilla drank every drop. There was a cold hand on my heart, as I watched her. But I had to go through with it. I could not afford to weaken now — it was too late. The mixture did all I had hoped for — there was not a shudder, not a grimace. She did say, which I thought rather odd, “This one should have an oriental name.”
I asked her why.
“An aroma of rose petals,” she said. “How did you manage that?”
I smiled wisely — but it certainly was an odd remark.
I persuaded her to go to her room immediately. I was suddenly filled with compassion. I wanted her to drop of pleasantly in bed. No horrors...
I went into my room, to wait. That hour was a lifetime I could not live through again. I began to think that I had been a fool, that I would never get away with it. I saw myself being tried, I heard the jury bring in the verdict of guilty.
Then I grew calmer — there was no palpable reason, no motive. I had married her, presumably, because I wanted to. I had the money, not she. Why should a man rid himself of a wife whom he can hardly have had time to tire, and whose death would not materially enrich him? I can’t find the answer to that, myself. It would sound silly to say I was afraid.
And so, having waited longer than was necessary to allow Sybilla to fall into her deep sleep, I went back to put that glass I had prepared beside her bed. I looped the belt of my bathrobe around it, to protect it from my fingerprints.
I opened the door. Her light was on. Sybilla was sitting up in bed, reading!
We stared at each other. There is a little table in the hall, just outside her door. I had barely enough presence of mind to put the glass down on it. My voice sounded cracked and strained. “Not asleep yet?”
“No, Horace — but how sweet of you, dear! Do come in.”
I couldn’t understand it. She must, I thought, be one of those rare people who react slowly. I stood there like a fool.
It was she who offered me a way out with, “You look ill — is anything the matter, dear?” Her voice was full of wifely concern.
Of course, I looked ill. Actually, at that moment, I was ill! I murmured something about the cocktail having disagreed with me, and asked for one of her indigestion tablets. Before I could stop her, she rose out of bed to get it for me. I was horrified lest the effort caused her to fall on her face, but nothing untoward happened.
“Would you like me to come and sit with you until you fall asleep?” she asked gently.
Briefly. I was stunned.
“No!” I almost shouted it. Then I added that I preferred to be alone when I was feeling unwell.
She nodded and smiled affectionately. “My unyielding bachelor,” she said and touched my forehead with her lips. “Go back to bed, dear. You’re in a cold sweat!”
Of course, I was in a cold sweat! Anyone in my position would have been.
I remembered to pick up the glass from the hall table and brought it back to my room with me. I must take care of it early in the morning. I can’t return for it now — I can’t! What a night! I shan’t sleep a wink.
Sybilla is dead... Sybilla is dead!
How can I pick up this narrative now — this narrative, that belonged to a different man, and continue it? For I am a different man. I have re-read what I wrote years ago, and I can scarcely believe that it was my brain, my hand, that conceived and put down those words.
I am suffering from shock. Even though I expected it, death is always a tremendous shock. It is so final, so complete — one can never go back. It has been a long time, and these pages look strange to me, yet I feel forced to finish them. It would not be right to leave them as they are.