When I awoke all was dark. My throat was parched, there was a horrible
racking pain in my head, a nauseating faintness at my heart. But worse
than this was the torment of remorse which weighed me down. I had
placed myself on a level with my curse, had proved myself worthy of
it. There was no excuse for the shameful excess in which I had
indulged. A hypocrite, self-convicted, I had become a willing slave to
the vice I had condemned, and I could now take rank with the abandoned
creatures from whom I had shrank in horror.
With difficulty I rose from the floor, upsetting furniture in the
effort, and felt my way to my bedroom, where I plunged my head into a
basin of cold water, keeping it there for some time, and sucking in
the water like a dog. As I stood dripping, in the darkness, I heard a
kind of sing-song proceeding from Barbara's room. Stealing into the
passage, I listened to the drivel. "Beast John is drunk--dead, dead
drunk! He preaches, preaches, preaches--Oh, the good man! Maxwell
knows, his mother knows, Louis knows. Ha, ha, ha! How funny! Beast
John is drunk--dead, dead drunk! Now let him preach--now let him write
to the papers." There was no method in her singing, no rythmical
arrangement of the insane song. The words dropped from her lips in
disjointed fashion, and there was a taunting exultation in her
utterance of them.
A frightful temptation assailed me--to kill her and myself, and be
done with the world. "What matter?" I muttered. "There is no God! If
there were He would not permit such women to live." Even at this
distance of time--yes, even though I know that my days are numbered--I
am thankful that some mysterious force within me leaped up to fight
the demon that would have damned my soul. I was conscious of the
inward conflict, the conflict of the two spirits, the good and the
evil, which are said to be forever warring for supremacy in a man's
heart. I hope I may say now (though I did not believe so then) that my
suffering had not crushed all the good out of me, and that there was
still some vitality in the better impulses of my being. I did not
openly recant the impious words I had muttered; my mood was too sullen
for that. I was ready for sin, but not for crime. My life was mine,
and I could do with it as I pleased, but it was not within my right to
dispose of the life of another mortal. Brooding upon this I fled from
the house as from a pestilence.
Intent upon self-destruction, I bent my steps riverwards. It was a
wretched night. Rain was falling heavily, and there was no light in
the sky. The spirit of black death brooded over the city. It was as if
nature favored my sinful purpose--or so I chose to interpret the
signs.
There were but few persons about; I took no notice of them, nor they
of me. Small incidents became unduly magnified. I had walked some
three or four miles, and was in the immediate vicinity of Westminster
Abbey when the cathedral clock began to strike. I paused and listened
with extreme attention, standing quite motionless and counting the
strokes till the hour was fully announced. It appeared to me a
singular and unusual thing that it should be three o'clock; singular,
also, that the rain should have ceased, and that a fog was creeping
over the streets.
It was only when I was again in motion that the significance of time,
in relation to the purpose I had in view, impressed me. "Three
o'clock," I thought. "At four I shall be dead." Crossing the road at
the top of Parliament Street a man, passing hastily, stumbled against
me. In a spirit of fury I grappled and threw him to the ground--and
stood over him, ready to stamp on him if he showed resistance. All my
senses were alert for evil. The man did not stir, and I passed on. But
I had not proceeded far before I stopped to consider whether I had
killed him. I groped my way back to the spot upon which I had left
him. The man was gone. I was neither glad nor sorry.
A woman--one of the misery's children--accosted me; appealed to me,
for the love of God, to give her a penny for a cup of coffee. The
coffee stall, which I had not seen, was within a dozen yards of us;
its lights shone dim through the fog, and shadowy, ghost-like forms
hung about it. I gave the woman a shilling, and continued on my way. I
was now on Westminster Bridge. The fog was thickening. I could
scarcely see the water. The dull reflection of the lamps on the
Embankment added to the general despondency of the scene. I was
enwrapped in gloom and silence. I walked to the end of the bridge, and
stood on the steps leading down to the river.
Upon what a slight foundation rests a man's fate! A chance turning
this way or that, a moment's hesitation, may make or mar, may lead to
destruction or salvation. I heard the muffled tread of a policeman,
and fearing that I had been seen, and my purpose discovered, I did not
descend the steps, but crossing the road, walked slowly towards
Kennington, intending presently to return and carry out my sinful
design. The probability is that I had not been seen, and should not
have been interrupted, for the policeman did not follow me, and the
echo of his footsteps gradually died away. When I was assured of this
I should have turned again towards the river had not a simple incident
changed the whole current of my life. The sound of a woman's
suppressed sobs fell upon my ear.