softly on the rippling water. Away on my right hand I could just
see the old wooden shed that once sheltered my boat in the days
when Mary went sailing with me and worked the green flag. On my
left was the wooden paling that followed the curves of the
winding creek, and beyond it rose the brown arches of the decoy
for wild fowl, now falling to ruin for want of use. Guided by the
radiant moonlight, I could see the very spot on which Mary and I
had stood to watch the snaring of the ducks. Through the hole in
the paling before which the decoy-dog had shown himself, at
Dermody's signal, a water-rat now passed, like a little black
shadow on the bright ground, and was lost in the waters of the
lake. Look where I might, the happy by-gone time looked back in
mockery, and the voices of the past came to me with their burden
of reproach: See what your life was once! Is your life worth
living now?

I picked up a stone and threw it into the lake. I watched the
circling ripples round the place at which it had sunk. I wondered
if a practiced swimmer like myself had ever tried to commit
suicide by drowning, and had been so resolute to die that he had
resisted the temptation to let his own skill keep him from
sinking. Something in the lake itself, or something in connection
with the thought that it had put into my mind, revolted me. I
turned my back suddenly on the lonely view, and took the path
through the wood which led to the bailiff's cottage.

Opening the door with my key, I groped my way into the
well-remembered parlor; and, unbarring the window-shutters, I let
in the light of the moon.

With a heavy heart I looked round me. The old furniture--renewed,
perhaps, in one or two places--asserted its mute claim to my
recognition in every part of the room. The tender moonlight
streamed slanting into the corner in which Mary and I used to
nestle together while Dame Dermody was at the window reading her
mystic books. Overshadowed by the obscurity in the opposite
corner, I discovered the high-backed arm-chair of carved wood in
which the Sibyl of the cottage sat on the memorable day when she
warned us of our coming separation, and gave us her blessing for
the last time. Looking next round the walls of the room, I
recognized old friends wherever my eyes happened to rest--the
gaudily colored prints; the framed pictures in fine needle-work,
which we thought wonderful efforts of art; the old circular
mirror to which I used to lift Mary when she wanted "to see her
face in the glass." Whenever the moonlight penetrated there, it
showed me some familiar object that recalled my happiest days.
Again the by-gone time looked back in mockery. Again the voices
of the past came to me with their burden of reproach: See what
your life was once! Is your life worth living now?

I sat down at the window, where I could just discover, here and
there between the trees, the glimmer of the waters of the lake. I
thought to myself: "Thus far my mortal journey has brought me.
Why not end it here?"

Who would grieve for me if my death were reported to-morrow? Of
all living men, I had perhaps the smallest number of friends, the
fewest duties to perform toward others, the least reason to
hesitate at leaving a world which had no place in it for my
ambition, no creature in it for my love.

Besides, what necessity was there for letting it be known that my
death was a death of my own seeking? It could easily be left to
represent itself as a death by accident.

On that fine summer night, and after a long day of traveling,
might I not naturally take a bath in the cool water before I went
to bed? And, practiced as I was in the exercise of swimming,
might it not nevertheless be my misfortune to be attacked by
cramp? On the lonely shores of Greenwater Broad the cry of a
drowning man would bring no help at night. The fatal accident
would explain itself. There was literally but one difficulty in
the way--the difficulty which had already occurred to my mind.
Could I sufficiently master the animal instinct of
self-preservation to deliberately let myself sink at the first
plunge?

The atmosphere in the room felt close and heavy. I went out, and
walked to and fro--now in the shadow, and now in the
moonlight--under the trees before the cottage door.

Of the moral objections to suicide, not one had any influence
over me now. I, who had once found it impossible to excuse,
impossible even to understand, the despair which had driven Mrs.
Van Brandt to attempt self-destruction--I now contemplated with
composure the very act which had horrified me when I saw it
committed by another person. Well may we hesitate to condemn the
frailties of our fellow-creatures, for the one unanswerable
reason that we can never feel sure how soon similar temptations
may not lead us to be guilty of the same frailties ourselves.
Looking back at the events of the night, I can recall but one
consideration that stayed my feet on the fatal path which led
back to the lake. I still doubted whether it would be possible
for such a swimmer as I was to drown himself. This was all that
troubled my mind. For the rest, my will was made, and I had few
other affairs which remained unsettled. No lingering hope was
left in me of a reunion in the future with Mrs. Van Brandt. She
had never written to
me again; I had never, since our last parting, seen her again in
my dreams. She was doubtless reconciled to her life abroad. I


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