But presently she got up and walked downstairs. She let herself out quietly into the street. Though much exhausted, Jenny’s instinctive economy prevented her from taking a cab, and with heavy steps she set out on foot to Waterloo. The night was cold and dark, and the November drizzle soaked her clothes, but in extreme distress of mind she noticed nothing. She went, staring straight in front of her, a set despair upon her face, and her eyes saw neither houses nor people: she walked through the crowd of Piccadilly as though through an empty street. Muffled, with umbrellas up, folk hurried to their homes, or, notwithstanding the inclement weather, aimlessly sauntered. Sometimes she sobbed brokenly, and then on a sudden scalding, painful tears ran down her cheeks. The way seemed endless, and her strength rapidly failed; her limbs, heavier than lead, ached terribly; but she would not drive, for the pain of motion was less than the pain of immobility. She crossed Westminster Bridge, and at length, scarcely realizing it, found herself at Waterloo. In so dazed a manner that the porter thought she had been drinking, Jenny asked when there would be a train, and sat down to wait. The glitter of electricity difficultly pierced the humid night, and the spaces of the station in that uncertain light seemed vast and cavernous. It was a mysterious place, sordid and horrible, which stretched weirdly to an infinite distance: people came and went, porters passed with luggage, trains arrived and departed; and the whole scene impressed itself on her tortured brain with a hideous, cruel intensity.

Having reached Barnes at length, Jenny felt no relief, but if possible, a greater wretchedness, for she remembered how often in summer, under soft blue skies, she had wandered across the common, clinging to Basil’s arm; and now it was dark and ugly, and the broom, all charred and bedraggled, even under cover of night had a dismal, squalid look. She came to the little pokey villa, let herself in, and went upstairs, vaguely hoping that Basil, after all, had come back, for it seemed impossible that she would never see him again. But he was nowhere. Now her agony grew too great for tears, and she walked through the house like one demented, mechanically setting straight things which were not in their usual place. In her bedroom she looked in the glass, comparing herself with Mrs. Murray, and noted with a certain bitter pride the splendour of her hair, the brilliancy of her eyes, the dazzling perfection of her skin: notwithstanding all she had gone through, Jenny was conscious of a beauty greater than Mrs. Murray’s. She was younger, too, and when she recalled the admiration which in the old days at the Golden Crown had been hers, could not understand how it was that with Basil she was so powerless. Other men had cared for her passionately, other men had been willing humbly to do her bidding; some, devouring her with their eyes, had trembled when they touched her hand; others turned pale with desire when she smiled upon them. Her beauty had been dinned into her ears, and Basil alone was insensible to it. Then, confusedly, with somewhat of that puritanic instinct which is ever in English blood, Jenny asked herself how she had merited such bitter punishment. She had done her best: she had been a good and faithful wife to Basil, and sought in every way to please him; and yet he loathed her. It seemed that God Almighty was against her, and she stood helpless before a vindictive power.

Still hoping against hope, she waited, and knowing at what hour each train was due, spent in agonised expectation the time which must elapse between its arrival and the walk of a passenger from station to house. The evening passed, and one train came after another, but Basil never; and then the last train was gone, and despair seized her, for he would not come that night. She understood that this was really the end, and abandoned utterly that shred of hope which alone had upborne her. She saw again the look of hatred with which he had flung at her the bitter words of scorn; his passion, long pent up, burst forth in that moment of uncontrollable irritation, and when she thought of it she quailed still. With all her heart Jenny wished she had closed her eyes to his doings, for now she would be thankful to keep him even without his love; she would have given worlds not to have forced from him the avowal of his passion for Mrs. Murray; the suspicion which had tortured her before was infinitely preferable to this horrible certainty. She would have borne anything rather than lose him altogether; she would have been grateful even for a look now and then; but never to see him at all! She would far sooner die.

Her heart gave a sudden throb. She would far sooner die. . . . That was the solution of it all. It was impossible to live with this aching pain; the unhappiness was too frightful—how much better it would be to be dead, to feel nothing!

“They’ve got no room for me,” she repeated. “I’m only in the way.”

Perhaps by dying she would do Basil a last service, and he might be sorry for her. He might regret what he had said, and wish he had been kinder and more forbearing. Living, she knew it was impossible to regain his love, but who could tell what miracle her death might work? The temptation seized her, and possessed her, and mastered her. A great excitement filled the wretched woman, and gathering together the remains of her strength, without hesitation, she got up, put on her hat, and went out. She went swiftly, upborne strangely by this resolve which attracted her with an intense fascination, for she expected peace from all trouble and safety from this anguish which rent her heart as no physical pain had ever done. She came to the river which flowed silent and dark in the dark and silent night, with heavy flood, menacing and chill; but in her it inspired no terror: if her heart beat quickly, it was with fearful joy because she was about to end her torment. She was glad that the night was sombre, and thanked God for the rain that kept loiterers away. She walked along the tow-path to a place she knew—the year before a woman had there thrown herself in because it was deep and the bank shelved suddenly, and Jenny had often passed the spot with a little shudder: once, half laughing, she said she was walking over her grave. A man came towards her, and she hid in the shadow of the wall, so that he went by without noticing that anyone was there; the trees in the garden above dripped heavily. She came to the spot she sought, and looked about to see that none was near; she took off her hat and laid it on the ground under the wall, so that it should get as little wet as possible; then, without hesitation, went to the river-bank. She felt no fear at all. For one moment she looked at the torpid, unmerciful water, and then boldly flung herself in.


Basil, on leaving Mrs. Murray’s, went to Harley Street, but finding Frank out, proceeded to his club, where he spent the evening in morose despair, heart-rent because Hilda had signified her intention to marry the Vicar of All Souls, and repentant already of the pain he had caused his wife. At first he meant to pass the night in town, but the more he thought of it, the more necessary it seemed to return to Barnes; for though fully minded to part from Jenny, on account of all that had gone before, he could not part in anger. But he felt it impossible to see her again immediately, and determined to get home so late that she would be in bed. There was in him an absolute impossibility of sleep, and he so dreaded the long wakefulness that, thinking to tire himself out, he set out to walk. It was nearly two when he came to his little house in River Gardens, and when he turned to enter Basil was much surprised to see a policeman ringing the bell.

“What d’you want, constable?” he asked.

“Are you Mr. Basil Kent? Will you come down to the station? There’s been an accident to your wife.”

Basil gave a cry, and with horror already upon him, asked the man what he meant. But the policeman simply repeated that he was to come at once, and together with haste they strode off. An inspector broke the news to him.

“You’re wanted to identify your wife. A man saw her walk along the tow-path and throw herself in. She was drowned before help could be got.”

Unable to understand the full meaning of those words, Basil stared stupidly, aghast and terror-struck. He opened his mouth to speak, but only gasped unintelligibly. He looked from one to another of those men, who watched him with indifference. The whole room turned round, and he could not see; he felt horribly faint, and then it seemed as though someone cruelly tore apart the sutures of his skull. He stretched out his hands aimlessly, and the inspector, understanding, led him to where Jenny lay. A doctor was still with her, but it seemed all efforts to restore life had been stopped.

“This is the husband,” said Basil’s guide.

“We could do nothing,” murmured the doctor. “She was quite dead when she was got out.”

Basil looked at her and hid his face. He felt inclined suddenly to scream at the top of his voice. It seemed too ghastly, too impossible.

“D’you know at all why she did it?” asked the doctor.

Basil did not answer, but gazed distraught at the closed eyes and the lovely hair disarranged and soaking wet.

“Oh, God! what shall I do? Can nothing be done at all?”

The doctor looked at him, and told a constable to bring some brandy; but Basil pushed it aside with distaste.

“What do you want me to do now?”

“You’d better go home. I’ll walk along with you,” said the doctor.

Basil stared at him with abject fear, and his eyes had an inhuman blackness, shining horribly out of the death-pale face.

“Go home? Can’t I stay here?”

The other took his arm and led him away. There was not far to go, and at the door the doctor asked if he could manage by himself.

“Yes. I shall be all right. Don’t trouble.”

He let himself in and went upstairs, and somehow a terror had seized him, so that when he stumbled against a chair he cried out in sheer fright. He sat down trying to gather his thoughts, but his mind seethed, so that he feared he would go mad, and ever there continued that appalling torture in his head which seemed to combine the two agonies of physical and of mental pain. Then there fell upon his consciousness the scene at the police-station, which before had been confused and dim. Now strangely, with keen minuteness, he saw each detail—the bare stone walls of the mortuary, the glaring light with its violent shadows, the countenances of those men in uniform, (every feature, the play of expression, was immensely distinct,) and the body! That sight tore into the inmost recesses of his soul, so that he nearly fainted with horror and with remorse. He groaned in his anguish. He never knew it was possible to suffer so dreadfully.

“Oh, if she’d only waited a little longer! If I’d only come back sooner, I might have saved her.”

With the same unnatural clearness he remembered the events of the afternoon, and he was absolutely aghast at his own cruelty. He repeated his words and hers, and saw the pitiful look on her face when she begged him to give her one more chance. Her voice trembled still in his ears, and the dreadful pain of her eyes daunted him. It was his fault, all his fault.

“I killed her as surely as though I’d strangled her with my own hands.”

His imagination violently excited, he saw the scene at the riverside, the dread of the murky heavy stream, the pitiless cold of it. He heard the splash and the scream of terror. He saw the struggle as the desire of life grew for one moment all-powerful. His head reeled with the woman’s agony of fear as the water seized on her, and he felt the horrible choking, the vain effort for breath. He burst into hysterical tears.

Then he remembered the love which she had lavished upon him, and his own ingratitude. He could only reproach himself bitterly because he had never really tried to make the best of things. The first obstacles had discouraged him, so that he forgot his duty. She had surrendered herself trustfully, and he had given sorrow instead of the happiness for which she was so brightly born, a dreadful death instead of the life which for his sake she loved so wonderfully. And at last it seemed that he could not go on living, for he despised himself. He could not look forward to the coming day and the day after. His life was finished now, finished in misery and utter despair. How could he continue, with the recollection of those reproachful eyes searing his very soul, so that he felt he could never sleep again? And the desire came strongly upon him to finish with existence as she had finished, thus offering in some sort reparation for her death, and at the same time gaining the peace for which she had given so much. A hideous fascination urged him, so that like a man hypnotized he went downstairs, out into the street, along the tow-path, and stood at the very place where Jenny had thrown herself in. He knew it well. And notwithstanding the darkness of the night, he could see that something had happened there; the bank was beaten and trodden down. But looking at the water, he shuddered with dismay. It was too bitterly cold, and he could not bear the long agony of drowning. Yet she had done it so easily. It appeared that she flung herself in quite boldly, without hesitating for a moment. Sick with terror, loathing himself for this cowardice, Basil turned away and walked quickly from that dreadful spot. Presently he broke into a run, and reached home trembling in every limb. That way, at all events, he could not face death.

But still he felt it impossible to continue with life, and he took from the drawer of his writing-desk a revolver, and loaded it. It needed but a slight pressure of the trigger, and there would be an end to the intolerable shame, to the remorse, and to all his difficulties. He stared at the little weapon, so daintily fashioned, and fingered it curiously, as though he were bewitched, but then, with vehement passion, flung it from him. He could not finish with the life which, after all, he loved still, and he shuddered with horror of himself because he was afraid. Tet he knew that the pain of a wound was small. During the war he had been hurt, and at the moment scarcely felt the tearing, burning bullet. The clock struck three. He did not know how to bear the rest of that unendurable night. Nearly five hours must pass before it was light, and the darkness terrified him. He tried to read, but his brain was in such a turmoil that he could make no sense of the words. He lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes to sleep, but then with vivid and ghastly distinctness saw Jenny’s pale face, her clenched hands and dripping hair. The silence of that room was inhuman. His eye caught some work of Jenny’s on a little table, left carelessly when she went out, and he appeared to see her, seated, as was her habit, over her sewing. His anguish was insufferable, and springing up, he took his hat and went out. He must have someone with whom to speak, someone to whom he could tell his bitter, bitter sorrow. He forgot the hour, and walked rapidly towards Hammersmith. The road was very lonely, so dark in that cold, starless night that he could not see a step before him; and never a human soul passed by, so that he might have traversed desert places. At length, crossing the bridge, he came to houses. He walked on pavements, and the recollection of the crowds which in the daytime thronged those streets eased him a little of that panic fear which drove him on. His steps, which had been directed without aim, now more consciously took him to Frank. From someone he must get help and advice how to bear himself. In his exhaustion he went more slowly, and the way seemed endless. There were signs at last that the City was awaking. Now and again a cart trundled heavily by with produce for Covent Garden; here and there a milk-shop blazed with light. His heart went out to those early toilers whose busy activity seemed to unite him once more with human kind. He stood for a moment in front of a butcher’s, where brawny fellows, silhouetted by the flaring gas, scrubbed the floor lustily.

At last—it seemed hours since he left Barnes—Basil found himself in Harley Street, and staggered up the steps. He rang the night-bell and waited. No answer came, and with anguish it crossed his mind that Frank might have been called out. Where could he go, for he was exhausted and faint, so that he could not walk another step? Since midnight he had trudged a good sixteen miles. He rang again, and presently heard a sound. The electric light was put on in the hall, and the door opened.

“Frank, Frank, for God’s sake, take me in! I feel as if I were dying.”

With amazement Frank saw his friend, dishevelled, without a great-coat, wet, splashed with mud; his face was ghastly pale, drawn and affrighted, and his eyes stared with the unnatural fixedness of a maniac. He asked no questions, but took Basil’s arm and led him into the room. Then the remains of his strength gave way, and sinking into a chair, he fainted.

“Idiot!” muttered Frank.

He seized him by the scruff of the neck and bent his head firmly till he forced it between the knees; and presently Basil regained consciousness.

“Keep your head down till I get you some brandy.”

Frank was not a man to be disconcerted by an unexpected occurrence, and methodically poured out a sufficient quantity of neat spirit which he made Basil drink. He told him to sit still for a moment and hold his tongue; then took his own pipe, filled and lit it, sat down quietly, wrapping himself up as best he could, and began to smoke. The nonchalance of his movements had a marvellous effect on Basil, for it was impossible to remain in that strained atmosphere of unearthliness when Frank, apparently not in the least surprised by his strange irruption, went about things in so stolid and unemotional a way. This unconcern exerted a kind of hypnotic influence, so that he felt oddly relieved. At last the doctor turned to him.

“I think you’d better take those things off. I can let you have some pyjamas.”

The sound of his voice suddenly called Basil back to the horrible events of his life, and with staring eyes and hoarse voice, cut by little gasps of anguish, he poured out incoherently the whole dreadful story. And then, breaking down again, he hid his face and sobbed.

“Oh, I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it!”

Frank looked at him thoughtfully, wondering what he had better do.

“I tried to kill myself in the night.”

“D’you think that would have done anyone much good?’

“I despise myself. I feel I haven’t the right to live; but I hadn’t the pluck to do it. People say it’s cowardly to destroy one’s self: they don’t know what courage it wants. I couldn’t face the pain. And yet she did it so easily—she just walked along the tow-path and threw herself in. And then, I don’t know what’s on the other side. After all, it may be true that there’s a cruel avenging God who will punish us to all eternity if we break His laws.”

“I wouldn’t high-falute if I were you, Basil. Supposing you came into the next room and went to bed. You’d be all the better for a few hours’ sleep.”

“D’you think I could sleep?” cried Basil.

“Come on,” said Frank, taking his arm.

He led him into the bedroom, and, Basil unresisting, took off his clothes and made him lie down. Then he got his hypodermic syringe.

“Now give me your arm and stop still. I’m only going to prick you—it won’t hurt.”

He injected a little morphia, and after a while had the satisfaction of seeing Basil fall comfortably asleep.

Frank put away his syringe with a meditative smile.

“It’s rather funny,” he muttered, “that the most tempestuous and tragic of human emotions are no match against a full dose of morphinæ hydrochlor.”

That tiny instrument could allay the troubled mind; grief and remorse lost their vehemence under its action, the pangs of conscience were stilled, and pain, the great enemy of man, was effectually vanquished. It emphasized the fact that the finest-strung emotions of the human race depended on the matter which fools have stigmatized as gross. Frank, in one wide-embracing curse, expressed his whole-hearted abhorrence of dualists, spiritualists, Christian Scientists, quacks, and popularizers of science; then, enveloped in a rug, settled down comfortably in an armchair to await the tardy dawn.

Two hours later he found himself at Barnes, gathering at the police-station more precise details of Jenny’s tragic death than Basil had been able to give him. Frank told the inspector that Kent was in a condition of absolute collapse and able personally to attend to nothing, then gave his own address, and placed himself for all needful business at the disposal of the authorities. He discovered that the inquest would probably be held two days later, and guaranteed that Basil would then be well enough to attend. After this he went to the house and found the servant amazed because neither master nor mistress had slept in bed, told her what had happened, and then wrote to James Bush some account of the facts. He promised the maid to return next morning, and went back to Harley Street.

Basil was up, but terribly depressed. All day he would not speak, and Frank could only divine the frightful agony he suffered. He went over in his mind eternally that scene with Hilda and his bitter words to his wife; and always he saw her in two ways: appealing for one last chance, and then—dead. Sometimes he felt he could scream with anguish when he recalled those passionate words of his to Hilda, for it seemed that final surrender was the cause of the whole catastrophe.

Next day, when Frank was about to go out, he turned to Basil, who was looking moodily into the fire.

“I’m going to Barnes, old chap. Is there anything you want?”

Basil began to tremble violently, and his pallor grew still more ghastly.

“What about the inquest? Have I got to go through that?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And the whole story will come out. They’ll know it was my fault, and I shall never be able to hold up my head again. Oh, Frank, is there no way out of it?”

Frank shook his head, and Basil’s mouth was drawn to an expression of hopeless despair. He said nothing more till the other was on the point of leaving the room; then he jumped up.

“Frank, there’s one thing you must do for me. I suppose you think me a cad and a brute. Heaven knows I despise myself as much as anyone else can do—but because we’ve been friends for such ages do one thing more for me. I don’t know what Jenny said to her people, and they’ll welcome a chance of hitting me now I’m down—Mrs. Murray’s name must be kept out of it at any cost.”

Frank stopped and meditated for a moment.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.

On his way to Waterloo the doctor went round to Old Queen Street and found Miss Ley breakfasting.

“How is Basil this morning?” she asked’

“Poor devil! he’s in rather a bad way. I scarcely know what to do with him. I think as soon as the inquest is over he’d better go abroad.”

“Why don’t you let him stay here till then? I’ll feed him up.”

“You’d only fuss. He’s much better by himself. He’ll just brood over it till his mind is exhausted, and then things will get better,”

Miss Ley smiled at the scorn with which he refused her suggestion, and waited for him to go on.

“Look here, I want you to lend me some money. Will you pay two hundred and fifty pounds into my bank this morning?”

“Of course I will,” she answered, delighted to be asked.

She went to her desk to get a cheque-book, while Frank looked at her with a little smile.

“Don’t you want to know what it’s for?”

“Not unless you wish to tell me.”

“You brick!”

He shook her hand warmly, and glancing at his watch, bolted off to Waterloo. When he arrived at River Gardens, Fanny, the servant, who opened the door, told him that James Bush was waiting to see him. She said he had been telling her all he meant to do to ruin Basil, and had been through the house to find papers and letters. Frank congratulated himself on the caution with which he had locked up everything. He walked upstairs softly, and opening the door, found James trying various keys on the writing-table. He started away when Frank entered, but quickly recovered his coolness.

“Why are all these drawers locked up?” he asked impudently.

“Presumably so that curious persons should not examine their contents,” answered Frank, with great amiability.

“Where’s that man? He’s murdered my sister. He’s a blackguard and a murderer, and I’ll tell him so to his face.”

“I was hoping to find you here, Mr. Bush. I wanted to have a talk with you. Won’t you sit down?”

“No, I won’t sit down,” he answered aggressively. “This ain’t the ’ouse that a gentleman would sit down in. I’ll be even with ’im yet. I’ll tell the jury a pretty story. He deserves to be strung up, he does.”

Frank looked sharply at the auctioneer’s clerk, noting the keen suspicious eyes, the thin lips, and the expression of low cunning. Wishing to prevent a scandalous scene at the inquest, for Basil was ill enough and wretched enough without having to submit to cross-examination on his domestic affairs, Frank thought it would not be difficult to bring James Bush to the frame of mind he desired; but the distaste with which this person inspired him led the doctor to use a very brutal frankness. He felt with such a man it was better not to mince matters, and unnecessary to clothe his meaning with flattering euphemisms.

“What d’you think you’ll get out of making a row at the inquiry?” he said, looking fixedly into the other’s eyes.

“Oh, you’ve thought of that, ’ave you? Did Master Basil send you to get round me? It won’t work, young feller, I mean to make it as ’ot for Basil as I can. I’ve ’ad something to put up with, I ’ave. He’s simply treated me like dirt. I wasn’t good enough for ’im, if you please.”

He hissed the words with the utmost malevolence, and it was possible to imagine that he cared little for his sister’s death, except that it gave opportunity for paying off the score which had so long rankled with him.

“Supposing you sat down quietly and listened to me without interruption for five minutes.”

“You’re trying to bamboozle me, but you won’t. I can see through you as if you was a pane of glass. You people in the West End—you think you know everything!”

Frank waited calmly till James Bush held his offensive tongue.

“What d’you think the furniture of this house is worth?” he asked deliberately.

The question surprised James, but in a moment he replied.

“It’s a very different thing what a thing’s worth and what it’ll fetch. If it was sold by a man as knew his business, it might fetch—a hundred pounds.”

“Basil thought of giving it to your mother and sister—on the condition, of course, that nothing is said at the inquest.”

James burst into a shout of ironical laughter.

“You make me laugh. D’you think you can gag me by giving a houseful of furniture to my mother and sister?”

“I had no such exalted opinion of your disinterestedness,” smiled Frank icily. “I come to you now. It appears that you owe Basil a good deal of money. Can you pay it?”

“No.”

“Also it appears there was some difficulty with your accounts in your last place,”

“That’s a lie,” James interrupted hotly.

“Possibly,” retorted Frank, with the utmost calm. “I merely mention it to suggest to your acute intelligence that we could make it uncommonly nasty for you if you made a fuss. If dirty linen is going to be washed in public, there’s generally a good deal to be said on both sides.”

“I don’t care,” cried the other vindictively; “I mean to get my own back. If I can get my knife into that man, I’ll take the consequences.”

“I understand it is your intention to unfold to a delighted jury the whole story of Basil’s married life.” Frank paused and looked at the other. “I’ll give you fifty pounds to hold your tongue.”

The offer was made cynically, and James actually coloured. He jumped up indignantly, and went over to Frank, who remained seated, watching with somewhat amused indifference.

“Are you trying to bribe me? I would ’ave you know that I’m a gentleman; and, what’s more, I’m an Englishman, and I’m proud of it. I’ve never ’ad anyone try and bribe me before.”

“Otherwise you would doubtless have accepted,” murmured Frank gently.

The doctor’s coolness greatly disconcerted the little clerk. He felt vaguely that high-flown protestations were absurd, for Frank had somehow taken his measure so accurately that it was no use to make any false pretences.

“Come, come, Mr. Bush, don’t be ridiculous. The money will doubtless be very useful to you, and you’re far too clever to allow private considerations to have any effect on you where business is concerned.”

“What d’you think fifty pounds is to me?” cried James, a little uncertainly.

“You must have mistaken me,” said Frank, after a quick look. “The sum I mentioned was a hundred and fifty.”

“Oh!” He coloured again, and a curious look came over his face. “That’s a very different pair of shoes.”

“Well?”

Frank observed the struggle in the man’s mind, and it interested him to see some glimmering of shame. James hesitated, and then forced himself to speak; but it was not with his usual self-assurance—it was almost in a whisper.

“Look ’ere, make it two ’undred and I’ll say done.”

“No,” answered Frank firmly. “You can take one fifty or go to the devil.”

James made no reply, but seeing that he agreed, Frank took a cheque from his pocket, wrote it out at the desk, and handed it.

“I’ll give you fifty now, and the rest after the inquest.”

James nodded, but did not answer. He was curiously humbled. He looked at the door, and then glanced at Frank, who understood.

“There’s nothing you need stay for. If you’re wanted for anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, so long.”

James Bush walked out with somewhat the air of a whipped cur. In a moment the servant passed through the room.

“Has Mr. Bush gone?” asked Frank.

“Yes. And good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Frank looked at her reflectively.

“Ah, Fanny, if there were no rogues in the world, life would really be too difficult for honest men.”