strong current set against him like a wind in his face; he contended

with it heavily, wearily, without enthusiasm, but with substantial

advantage; marking his progress the while, without pleasure, by the

outline of the trees. Once he had a moment of hope. He heard to the

southward of him, towards the centre of the lagoon, the wallowing of

some great fish, doubtless a shark, and paused for a little, treading

water. Might not this be the hangman? he thought. But the wallowing died

away; mere silence succeeded; and Herrick pushed on again for the shore,

raging as he went at his own nature. Ay, he would wait for the shark;

but if he had heard him coming!... His smile was tragic. He could have

spat upon himself.

About three in the morning, chance, and the set of the current, and the

bias of his own right-handed body, so decided it between them that he

came to shore upon the beach in front of Attwater's. There he sat down,

and looked forth into a world without any of the lights of hope. The

poor diving dress of self-conceit was sadly tattered! With the fairy

tale of suicide, of a refuge always open to him, he had hitherto

beguiled and supported himself in the trials of life; and behold!

that also was only a fairy tale, that also was folk-lore. With the

consequences of his acts he saw himself implacably confronted for the

duration of life: stretched upon a cross, and nailed there with the iron

bolts of his own cowardice. He had no tears; he told himself no stories.

His disgust with himself was so complete that even the process of

apologetic mythology had ceased. He was like a man cast down from a

pillar, and every bone broken. He lay there, and admitted the facts, and

did not attempt to rise.

165

The Ebb-Tide