I can shut my eyes and go back to that night, like a man outside of myself, see that man that I was and register all his thoughts, those thoughts that are no longer mine...
When dawn broke, I went back to Sybilla’s room. She was in a deep sleep — but her breathing was as natural and even as a child’s. How long it took — I was amazed. Just as I lifted her hand to press it around the glass, she awoke and sat up in bed!
“Why, Horace, dear, what is it?” she asked me.
I thought I was going to faint.
Sybilla was all solicitude. I told her I hadn’t slept and, in order to explain the glass in my hand, said that I was going to take a sleeping draft. I had come in to tell her that I would not be down for breakfast, and did not want to be disturbed.
Apparently, the dose had had no effect upon her whatsoever. She looked bright and well-rested. Her respiration was normal.
I went back to my room in a daze. I would have to pretend to sleep until the afternoon. I was tired, absolutely exhausted, spiritually and mentally, but I knew I could not sleep. I decided to do just what I had said I would do. I went to the bathroom, took down the jar of crystals and mixed my regular dose. Since the stuff is so bitter, I always tossed it off in one gulp, like straight whisky.
It almost paralyzed me. But, although it was revoltingly unpleasant, it was not bitter. It was sickly, heavily scented, like perfume.
No wonder, Sybilla hadn’t... But, at that moment, my stomach muscles rebelled, and I returned the nauseating mixture I had just swallowed.
I heard her voice at my elbow then. I had been making so much noise that I hadn’t heard the door, or her footsteps, through the bedroom.
She filled a glass with water. “Rinse out your mouth immediately,” she said.
When I could do so, I looked at her. She seemed very much upset. Her words tumbled out, humble, worried, apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Horace! But I had just waked up and didn’t think to tell you — then I just didn’t remember. Sorry, I was too late.”
My God! I thought. She’s poisoned me!
“It was silly of me,” she went on, “but you do get so annoyed if I touch your things. The other morning, I was tidying up in here and — well — I had an accident. The bottle didn’t break, but the top flew off, and the crystals spilled all over the place. I had to sweep them up and throw them away. I didn’t want you to notice. I was going to get the doctor to give me a prescription, so that I could replace it, but mean-while...”
“What is it?” I gasped. “What have I taken?”
“Oh, it can’t hurt you, dear — just my bath salts. They were the only thing I had that looked enough like the other stuff. It was just temporary, of course. I didn’t think you’d take any before I... I’m so sorry.”
I had to get out of the house. So, murmuring something about a walk and fresh air, I dressed and left.
My head was in a turmoil. Was it possible. Could a bottle fall in a tiled bathroom and not break? Would the top fly off, so that all the crystals spilled? Unlikely, certainly — but could I be sure it was impossible? If not that, then she must have deliberately — but how had she known that just at that time...? No, it must have been as she said. She might have thought I wouldn’t notice the substitution. It was true that I invariably made a scene if anything of mine was touched.
It was at once plausible and improbable.
The answer was awaiting me, when I returned to the house. I went into the sitting room. Sybilla was the picture of distaff bliss, with a sewing basket beside her. But she was not sewing, she was reading, or rather, turning the pages of a book.
Her voice was anxious, a little nervous, as she asked — “Are you feeling better? Would you like some breakfast after all?”
I had to begin somewhere. I asked her what she was reading.
“Just a thriller,” she replied.
“Trash.” I said.
She blushed. “I suppose so, but it’s rather clever — you know, psychological?”
I waited.
She went on. “I was reading a book the other day on psychology. I learned a lot. You know, children will often fight their parents, fight what is good for them, fight what they really want because they resent the power the adult has over them. They will say and do the most dreadful things. Wish their father was dead — act it out, killing a doll, or just pretending, even having a funeral. The Parents have to understand that the child really loves them but he has to get it out of his system.”
“Claptrap!” I told her. “Nonsense! Children like that should be spanked.”
She looked a little worried. “Perhaps, a little, sometimes — but mostly they should be loved — loved and understood. You know, Horace, I’m not very good at explaining things, but I do understand.”
What was she trying to tell me?
“These thrillers,” she went on, like someone who is desperately trying to make conversation. “Trash, as you say, but clever. This one had quite a good idea. A man thinks someone is trying to kill him, and he finds evidence of these intentions in a diary. He makes a photostatic copy and deposits it in his lawyer’s safe with instructions that it is to be given to the District Attorney in the event of his death. Then he lets the would-be murderer know what he has done.”
I was literally choking, but I had to speak. “It’s a worn-out device,” I said. “Been used dozens of times.”
“But effective, I think, Horace.”
Then I saw the key lying on top of her open sewing basket. I knew every convolution, every notch of that key! I remembered the day I had gone to town and returned to find her in the den.
Sybilla’s voice came from a long way off. “Oh, yes, dear, I intended to tell you. If ever you lose the key to your desk — there were two, you know. I kept this one for you, just in case.”
I saw it all. She had been reading my journal. She had removed it and had a photostat made. She knew! The bath salts — oriental rose petals, indeed!
I saw that she had let me know that we were to go on as if nothing had happened. She considered my plan a child’s fantasy, one that I must get out of my system...
That was when I began to change. Not immediately, but it happened. After all, for some reason I had married her, and Sybilla seemed convinced that, despite myself, I had wanted to.
We were married just over ten years. Sybilla has just died, quietly in bed, after a long illness. I miss her — miss her as I never missed anyone.
I admit that, at first, it was the thought of that sealed envelope in the lawyer’s safe, To be opened in the event of my death. I had to be sure that Sybilla didn’t die. I worried if she sat in a draft. It became second nature to me to look after her and watch over her. There was nothing else to do. We had to live together.
I began to appreciate her cooking, her intelligent comments, her comeliness, her quietness — the way she had of always being there when I wanted her, or of disappearing when I wanted to be alone. Sybilla was a perfect wife.
Just before the end I thought of the lawyer’s safe. It was a selfish thought. I had nothing to fear. The cause of Sybilla’s death was clear. But to have that horrible thing read by any human eye — to have it whispered about...
I bent over her, “Sybilla. Can you sign a request so that — the papers with the lawyer?”
She looked at me once and smiled. “Darling!” she said, and that was all...
There was nothing in the lawyer’s safe, nothing but a few family papers. There had never been anything. Was it all coincidence? An accident? The bath salts? The key? I hope so. But I think she knew and did not care. It was not herself she wanted to save, but me.