"It's a cheap, silly trick . . ." he muttered. "Nothing more. She thought that would fetch me, that old, old tale about 'ending it all.' It won't though. It's despicable."
On the fitful wind came the sound of the chimes ringing the half hour, faint at first, and ending in a clear ringing note as a strong gust blew. It chilled him. He stood still in the centre of the room, everything so quiet, his watch and his heart racing together, like nature and civilization in a laughable competition. And then behind the wall came a little sound, something indistinct, a rustle or a tiny sigh.
"This must be ended!" he said, aloud, and took a step toward the door. There at his feet was the letter. "'Friends' . . . 'Go on being friends!'" To go on—to go on—to keep the fluttering tormented thing alive a little longer, only to meet the same end. He could not keep it up; very soon she would see. . . . A farce, or a tragedy?
He flung himself into a chair and covered his face with his hands—a mechanical and self-conscious gesture, done only out of regard for the situation. He was not able even to think of her now; he was lost in contemplation of a procession of doleful images, all the brothers and sisters of Miss Flotsam, from the beginning of time, all floating helpless in the current, their perishing faces turned without hope, without reproach, toward those others who did not drift, who were aboard their ship and bound for an unimaginable port.
The clock struck twelve. It was the most tremendous clamour he had ever heard, it rang in his own body with violent vibrations. After the actual sound had died away, the waves still beat on his ears with the brutal excitement of a tocsin. The terror, the ecstacy, it must be for her! But for her it would end, and for him it would go on ringing. . . .
He got up when he could, when the deafening and sublime clangour had grown fainter in his heart. He went out and knocked upon her door. He waited, and knocked again, but there was no answer.
He tore up the letter and left the house, not to return, without advising any one of what had happened under that roof. Miss Flotsam was washed up on the beach now, out of reach of the sea; let her lie there in peace.
