less in deed. I love hopelessly—it is my own affair. I am resigned to that hopelessness. I am strong enough, I believe, to bear even that burden. And now—to work. My cigar is smoked out. Enough of this sentimentalism of a baldheaded, middle-aged man up three pair of stairs. For poor Wilford, he will recover, thanks to her care. Even if he sinks, she will be at his side to the last" (his voice softened and trembled) "to close his eyes, to pray for him, to weep for him, as only a loving wife can. Good Heaven! what has he ever done to deserve such happiness!"
He trimmed his lamp and turned to his work. And at the time he did so Wilford, with a look of agony in his face, was moaning forth the plaint—
"O God, what have I done that I should be so wretched!"
He was on Waterloo Bridge, leaning on the balustrade. A feeling of faintness had again come over him. He had torn open his neckerchief and shirt collar, it seemed to him that they hindered his breathing.
"Let me get out of the street—let me go where there is a chance of air." And he had quitted the Strand, and passed on to Waterloo Bridge.
He was panting for breath, his hand pressing on his heart, his white face turned towards the star-crowded heavens. For some moments he remained so.
"I thought the past dead," he murmured, in very troubled tones, "stone dead. I never dreamt it could rise up against me like this. And the future? What am I to do? God knows. I cannot—I dare not think! And Violet!"
He hid his face in his hands.
Some one approached—a tall man humming an operatic air. He passed Wilford, apparently not noticing him. He went on for some yards and then stopped—as people will do on bridges—to look down at the water or up at the sky or round at the prospect. He was smoking a cigarette; he was evidently a man of varied accomplishments; he smoked and hummed contemporaneously; he was well-dressed, in a black loose overcoat, a shiny hat, and a delicately white neckerchief. Black eyebrows formed almost parallel curves to his gold-rimmed spectacles, which glazed a pair of very sharp grey eyes. On his large white hand glistened a massive ring—a serpent with diamond eyes winding round and gnawing a blood-red carbuncle. He communed with himself.
"A fine night. It is pleasant here. One gets out of the frightful noise of those streets there. I like my evening promenade on the bridge. It is exclusive. What a difference a sou makes! It is well worth that to be alone and quiet. The Bridge Waterloo! But I am above little prejudices. Why should I not aid its funds with my sou each evening? The bridge which those drolls of English built to celebrate the victory of Herr Blucher! Well, well, what is it to me? It was before my time, perhaps. What does the past ever signify?—nothing."
And he sang in a pleasant barytone voice a fragment of a French chanson, while he rolled up adroitly and rapidly another cigarette.
"It is pleasant looking from this bridge. It is pretty—all those little rows of lights of the other bridges. It was here that poor M. Nourrit walked up and down thinking to kill himself, but he could not make up his mind. There are many would kill themselves if they could only make up their minds. Suicide would spread but for that little difficulty, and the want of a steady hand. Yes, that also,—it needs that. Poor dear M. Nourrit! How well he used to sing, 'Des chevaliers de ma patrie!' Ah!" (and he turned his eyes upon Wilford) "we have company! Who is that person there? What! a suicide—or what you call, a swell? Is not that it? Bah! what is it to me, suicide or swell? What care I! I am not of the police English. Let him be suicide if he will. Why should the police obstruct the suicides? What harm do they do? Ah, I forget. They have no Morgue in London! That is why! What savages—no Morgue! The sight the most amusing of Paris—always new—always full of charm, and crowded, above all, with those drolls of English who have no Morgue in their dog of a country! Where, then, here do they make exposition of bodies? La! la! oup la! oup la! O la!" (And the gentleman resumed his singing.) "No, he will not suicide to-night. Bravo! my friend, you have reason." (Wilford had turned from the parapet, and was now walking slowly towards the Middlesex end of the bridge.) "You are tall; you are strong. Why should you jump to the water? He has black beard. Ah! I am not of the English police. But, let me see, then, the face of the suicide—of the swell. Which is it? Behold! this is interesting. I will follow him."
"I will write to her!" Wilford exclaimed. He quickened his pace—he left the bridge. Not far from it he perceived that a coffee-shop was still open. It was on the other side of the road. He crossed to it and entered. It was almost deserted.
"A cup of coffee," he said; "and bring me a sheet of paper, pen and ink."
"It grows late, sir," remarked the woman in the shop; "we were about to close."
"I will detain you only a very few minutes."
Another guest had entered the room. The woman bestirred herself to bring what was required. Wilford did not drink his coffee, but he commenced writing.
"My dearest Violet," he wrote. Then he paused. Subsequently he made two or three attempts to proceed with the letter. But he could not satisfy himself. He leant his head upon his hands, lost in doubt for some moments. Then suddenly he roused himself.
"No," he muttered, "I cannot write to her—I cannot leave her like that. I must see her—speak to her, even though it should be for the last time." He tore the paper into strips.
He paid the small sum due for the coffee he had not tasted, and the paper he had torn, and quitted the shop.
The other guest changed his seat. He collected the scraps of paper Wilford had left,—some on the table, some scattered on the floor.
"A good rule," he said, "never to lose a clue. And I am interested in spite of myself. So then; I