“What is that saying of Ingall’s?” he mused as he passed down the stair. “ ‘It is just as well to let dynamite alone, particularly when it happens to be intelligent and has a grievance.’ When Nevius understands what I do, he will kill that woman, and by George, when he does, for the first time in my life I shall want to be on the jury.”
“Patrick, is that you?” he interrupted himself to ask. “Patrick, do you keep an eye on Mr. Nevius, he is not at all well. Should he be ill during the night send for me at once, don’t call a messenger, ring up a cab, and tell the driver it’s a fiver if he gets me here in no time.”
With that, this serviceable writer of immoral fiction buttoned his Inverness and left the house.
“Patrick,” said Nevius a little later, “here is a prescription, take it to Asquith’s on the corner, get it filled and tell the druggist I want to speak to him. You found some whisky, did you? Very good, put it there.”
Pouring a little of the liquor out, he drank it off. Under its influence the stupor fell from him. He began a letter, which must have been difficult however: the right words would not always come and there was a blur in his eyes besides. But he got it done, and addressing it to his wife, immediately he began another to Miss Adulam, a third to Tredegar. In writing these also his pen often stopped, hesitant and perplexed, but when at last they were all finished, and on a fresh sheet he began the “Know all men by these presents;” his pen went rapidly enough, as he devised his property, real and personal, of whatever kind, nature and description, to Hilda Nevius, her heirs, executors and assigns forever.
“The druggist is below, sir.” At the door stood Patrick. “Shall I leave the prescription with you?”
“Yes, put it there. Ask him up. And, Patrick, do you wait.”
A moment, and Nevius rose in greeting of a meager man in a frock coat.
“Mr. Asquith, this is very kind of you. Here is my will. Will you witness it for me?”
“Certainly, anything to oblige.”
“I sign it then in your presence. Put your signature here, please, and your address. Patrick, I want you to witness it too. Thank you both very much.”
“Nothing else, Mr. Nevius, is there?”
No, there was nothing, and presently when he was alone again he repeated that word a little sadly to himself.
“What was that I once heard Jones say?” he queried. “We should prolong life, not death? That is it; and this is death. Well, let me not prolong it.”
Before him was the prescription; opening it he filled a goblet to the brim and tossed it off. How good it was! A little hot to the throat, a little cloying to the palate, but clean to the tongue, fragrant, too.
On the mantel lay his hat, he took it up and seating himself, his head covered, he drew on a glove and buttoned it. But why were the books, the yellow shelves of law, the darker tomes of history, retreating through that little space which he had noticed earlier in the night? Before he could account for anything so strange, the walls, too, had retreated, joy and fear, love and anguish, all had gone and in their stead was oblivion and rest for memory.
XIII
“Imbecile that you are! Don’t you know, Haven’t I told you, haven’t I arch-told you that nothing could cause her greater joy?”
“But what a reason! Am I to live merely because my death might gratify another?”
With an expression that was both furious and indulgent, Jones glowered in amicable rage.
“And truly,” Nevius added, “I don’t thank any of you.”
Long before he had awaked, conscious, if at all, only that people were leaving the room. Presently he had recognized Patrick; at once the episode of the previous night returned, and with it the perception of failure. Later he learned that Patrick, attracted by his breathing, alarmed at his attitude, had sent for a physician, for Jones as well. The physician had been the first to arrive, and after hours of labor, had gone, threatening to prosecute the druggist.
But now, three days later, clothed and in his right mind the resurrected sat talking with his friend.
“No,” Jones answered. “That would be medieval. I mean nothing so Hugoesque. But, dear boy, you have no right to leave the planet until you have shown this accusation to be as false as you and I know it to be. The bare bodkin may be simpler, but it is not at all chivalrous to leave Miss Adulam in the plight she is. Can’t you understand that if this effort had succeeded even her own mother would have believed that the story was true? No, you must live for the reporters, you must live for your wife, and meanwhile get a verdict. When you have got that kill yourself as often as you like. Yet there is just the eccentricity of the whole thing, man never commits suicide twice. If he recovers he has no desire to repeat the experiment, and if he doesn’t that is the end of that. But don’t you have anything to drink in this house?”
Oh, yes. Though little else had been discoverable drink there was in plenty, and presently, comforted by a Scotch and soda, the garrulous novelist ran on:
“But whatever possessed you to do a thing of that sort with your hat on? Do you know, that is what we call a document. I shall have a suicide in my next novel merely for that hat. I would give the whole story, for that matter, were it not so bald. It would not do for New York. Here the reporter can be as pornograph as
