Because it was cold in the dining-room, and the wind was howling, and there was a numb sensation in his hands. A funny dead feeling. The whisky, perhaps. But when he had turned on the gas, he forgot about it, and stood thinking, matchbox in hand, thinking out the new problem. It was difficult to think clearly. Then it exploded like that, when he put the match to it. He kicked it. Damned fool of a thing. Like John. It was John who was responsible for all this worry and fuss. John could go to the devil. He had fooled John before, and he would fool him again. Ha, ha! That was a cunning idea. Then they would say in the papers, “A great genius—a noble character—ha, ha!—‘The Death in the Wood’—last work, imaginative writing”—ha, ha! imaginative!—and it was all true. But nobody would know—nobody would say so—because he would be dead. John wouldn’t say so, and Margery wouldn’t say so—because he would be dead. Mustn’t say anything about the dead. Oh no! Must burn this silly confession. When he had had another drink. It was so cold. No more whisky—hell! “There’s hoosh in the bottle still.” But there wasn’t. Who wrote that? Damned Canadian fellow. The Yukon. Port. There was some port somewhere. Port was warming.
He fumbled in the oak dresser for the decanter, knocking over a number of glasses. Damned little port left—somebody been at it. Best drink in the world—port. Good, rich, generous stuff. Ah! That was good. One more glass. Then he would go out. . Margery would be wandering down in a minute—would think he was drunk. He wasn’t drunk—head perfectly clear. Saw the whole thing now. Dramatic end—drowned in sight of home—national loss—moonlight. No, there was no moon. Hell of a wind, though. A sou’wester—he, he! Poor Margery, poor Muriel, poor John! They would miss him—when he had gone. They would be sorry then. Good fellow, John. Good fellows—all of them. But they didn’t appreciate him—nobody did. Yes, Muriel did. A dear girl, Muriel. But no mind. He would like to say goodbye to Muriel. And Margery. But that wouldn’t do. Dear things, both of them. Drink their healths. The last glass. No more port. No more whisky. No cheese, no butter, no jam. Like the war. Ha, ha!
First-rate port. He was warm now, and sleepy. God, what a wind. Mustn’t go to sleep here. Sleep in the river—the dear old river. Drowning was pleasant, they said—not like hanging. Would rather stay here, though—in the warm. Only there was no more port. And he had promised someone—must keep promises. Come on, then. No shirking. Head perfectly clear. What was it he was going to do first? Something he had to do. God knows. Head perfectly clear. But sleepy. Terribly sleepy.
He walked over with an intense effort of steadiness to the door into the garden, as if there were many watching, and opened the door. The wind beat suddenly in his face and rushed past triumphant into the house. The bay-tree tossed and shook itself in the next garden. The dead leaves rushed rustling up and down the stone path, and leapt in coveys up the wall, and fled for refuge up the steps and into the house out of the furious wind. The shock of the cool air and the violence of the wind sobered him a little, and he paused irresolute at the top of the steps. Then, with the obstinate fidelity of a drunken man to a purpose once formed, he walked unsteadily down the steps; he looked up at the lighted window of Margery’s room, and waved his arm vaguely, and shouted a thick “Goodbye,” but his throat was husky, and it was difficult to shout. Then he passed on down the path, talking to himself. There was a boathook against the wall and he picked it up, and went down the steps into the small dinghy. He fumbled for a long time with the rope that tied her, and pushed off at last with the boathook. He pushed out into the wind, stupidly paddling with the boathook, because he had forgotten the oars. But it was no matter. He would not go back. He must go on. Out into the middle.
Margery, lying wondering in bed, heard the faint sound of a cry above the wind, and jumped out of bed. From the window she saw nothing but the hurrying clouds and the faint, wild gleam of the excited river. She crept down shivering to the drawing-room, where the lights still burned. A great draught of cold air swept up to the stairs, and she ran down fearfully to the dining-room. She saw the glasses in the brilliant light, the empty glasses and the empty bottle and the empty decanter, and under one of the glasses a sheet of paper flapping in the wind. She picked it up, stained with a wet half-circle of wine, and then with a low wail she ran out through the open door into the roaring gloom, her thin covering whipping about her.
It was dark in the garden, but over the river there was the pale radiance of water in a wind. And there were some stars now, racing after the clouds. And away towards the Island she saw the boat, not far off, a small black smudge against the dirty gleam of the tumbled river. It was moving very slowly, for the wind was fighting for it with the stubborn tide. And in the boat she saw a standing figure, swaying as the boat rocked, leaning with one hand on some kind of a staff, and waving the other with sweeping gestures in the air, as a man making a speech. As she looked a squall came over the water, a sudden gust of furious violence, as if the
