MY spirits rose as I walked through the bright empty streets, and
breathed the fresh morning air.
Taking my way eastward through the great city, I stopped at the first
office that I passed, and secured my place by the early coach to
Ipswich. Thence I traveled with post-horses to the market-town which was
nearest to Greenwater Broad. A walk of a few miles in the cool evening
brought me, through well-remembered by-roads, to our old house. By the
last rays of the setting sun I looked at the familiar row of windows in
front, and saw that the shutters were all closed. Not a living creature
was visible anywhere. Not even a dog barked as I rang the great bell at
the door. The place was deserted; the house was shut up.
After a long delay, I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. An old man
opened the door.
Changed as he was, I remembered him as one of our tenants in the by-gone
time. To his astonishment, I greeted him by his name. On his side, he
tried hard to recognize me, and tried in vain. No doubt I was the more
sadly changed of the two: I was obliged to introduce myself. The poor
fellow's withered face brightened slowly and timidly, as if he were half
incapable, half afraid, of indulging in the unaccustomed luxury of a
smile. In his confusion he bid me welcome home again, as if the house
had been mine.
Taking me into the little back-room which he inhabited, the old man
gave me all he had to offer--a supper of bacon and eggs and a glass
of home-brewed beer. He was evidently puzzled to understand me when I
informed him that the only object of my visit was to look once more
at the familiar scenes round my old home. But he willingly placed his
services at my disposal; and he engaged to do his best, if I wished it,
to make me up a bed for the night.
The house had been closed and the establishment of servants had been
dismissed for more than a year past. A passion for horse-racing,
developed late in life, had ruined the rich retired tradesman who had
purchased the estate at the time of our family troubles. He had gone
abroad with his wife to live on the little income that had been saved
from the wreck of his fortune; and he had left the house and lands in
such a state of neglect that no new purchaser had thus far been found to
take them. My old friend, "now past his work," had been put in charge of
the place. As for Dermody's cottage, it was empty, like the house. I was
at perfect liberty to look over it if I liked. There was the key of the
door on the bunch with the others; and here was the old man, with his
old hat on his head, ready to accompany me wherever I pleased to go.
I declined to trouble him to accompany me or to make up a bed in the
lonely house. The night was fine, the moon was rising. I had supped; I
had rested. When I had seen what I wanted to see, I could easily walk
back to the market-town and sleep at the inn. Taking the key in my hand,
I set forth alone on the way through the grounds which led to Dermody's
cottage.
Again I followed the woodland paths along which I had once idled so
happily with my little Mary. At every step I saw something that reminded
me of her. Here was the rustic bench on which we had sat together under
the shadow of the old cedar-tree, and vowed to be constant to each other
to the end of our lives. There was the bright little water spring, from
which we drank when we were weary and thirsty in sultry summer days,
still bubbling its way downward to the lake as cheerily as ever. As I
listened to the companionable murmur of the stream, I almost expected to
see her again, in her simple white frock and straw hat, singing to the
music of the rivulet, and freshening her nosegay of wild flowers by
dipping it in the cool water. A few steps further on and I reached a
clearing in the wood and stood on a little promontory of rising ground
which commanded the prettiest view of Greenwater lake. A platform
of wood was built out from the bank, to be used for bathing by good
swimmers who were not afraid of a plunge into deep water. I stood on the
platform and looked round me. The trees that fringed the shore on either
hand murmured their sweet sylvan music in the night air; the moonlight
trembled 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
(forgiven) her for having forgotten me. My thoughts of her and of others
were the forbearing thoughts of a man whose mind was withdrawn already
from the world, whose views were narrowing fast to the one idea of his
own death.
I grew weary of walking up and down. The loneliness of the place began
to oppress me. The sense of my own indecision irritated my nerves.
After a long look at the lake through the trees, I came to a positive
conclusion at last. I determined to try if a good swimmer could drown
himself.