The Lonely Bride by Fred M. White

It was even as Grace had said. Inexperienced as she was in these things, she did not need anyone to tell her that Stephen Rice was past all other mischief. After the first outbreak of surprise Grace grew singularly calm and collected. She noted the look of curious interest on the faces of the servants; she did not fail to see that there was no trace of regret anywhere. Stephen Rice was dead, and there was an end of it as far as his employes were concerned. The world was a better and a purer place without him.

Grace stood there giving a few simple directions when the full force of his unexpected death came home to her. It would have been absurd of her to have expressed any regret, she hoped that those about her could not possibly understand or follow the fierce exultation that was making her heart beat thick and fast. For she was free, she had not made her bitter sacrifice in vain. She had not even to look back with loathing and contempt upon even so much as an hour spent alone in the society of Stephen Rice. She had married him as she had promised, but he had never so much as clasped her hand; he remained to the end the same stranger that he had begun.