My heart smote me as he disappeared; I had spoken very harshly to the poor old fellow—­but I instinctively felt that it was necessary to do so.  His close and ceaseless examination of me—­his timidity when he approached me—­the strange tremors he experienced when I addressed him, were so many warnings to me to be on my guard with this devoted domestic.  Were he, by some unforeseen chance, to recognize me, my plans would all be spoiled.  I took my hat and left the house.  As I crossed the upper terrace, I saw a small round object lying in the grass—­it was Stella’s ball that she used to throw for Wyvis to catch and bring to her.  I picked up the poor plaything tenderly and put it in my pocket—­and glancing up once more at the darkened nursery windows, I waved a kiss of farewell to my little one lying there in her last sleep.  Then fiercely controlling all the weaker and softer emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, I hurried away.  On my road to the hotel I stopped at the telegraph-office and dispatched the news of Stella’s death to Guido Ferrari in Rome.  He would be surprised, I thought, but certainly not grieved—­the poor child had always been in his way.  Would he come back to Naples to console the now childless widow?  Not he!—­he would know well that she stood in very small need of consolation—­and that she took Stella’s death as she had taken mine—­as a blessing, and not a bereavement.  On reaching my own rooms, I gave orders to Vincenzo that I was not at home to any one who might call—­and I passed the rest of the day in absolute solitude.  I had much to think of.  The last frail tie between my wife and myself had been snapped asunder—­the child, the one innocent link in the long chain of falsehood and deception, no longer existed.  Was I glad or sorry for this?  I asked myself the question a hundred times, and I admitted the truth, though I trembled to realize it.  I was glad—­yes—­glad!  Glad that my own child was dead!  You call this inhuman perhaps?  Why?  She was bound to have been miserable; she was now happy!

The tragedy of her parents’ lives could be enacted without imbittering and darkening her young days, she was out of it all, and I rejoiced to know it.  For I was absolutely relentless; had my little Stella lived, not even for her sake would I have relaxed in one detail of my vengeance—­nothing seemed to me so paramount as the necessity for restoring my own self-respect and damaged honor.  In England I know these things are managed by the Divorce Court.  Lawyers are paid exorbitant fees, and the names of the guilty and innocent are dragged through the revolting slums of the low London press.  It may be an excellent method—­but it does not tend to elevate a man in his own eyes, and it certainly does not do much to restore his lost dignity.  It has one advantage—­it enables the criminal parties to have their way without further interference—­the wronged husband is set free—­left out in the cold—­and laughed at by those who wronged