picked up the slendervolume, and holding it, approached the

crimson-shaded lamp. The fiery tint deepened on the cover, and
contorted gold letters sprawling all over it in an intricate maze,

came out, gleaming redly. "Thorns and Arabesques." He read it twice,
"Thorns and Ar . . . . . . . ." The other's book of verses. He dropped

it at his feet, but did not feel the slightest pang of jealousy or
indignation. What did he know? . . . What? . . . The mass of hot

coals tumbled down in the grate, and he turned to look at them . . .
Ah! That one was ready to give up everything he had for that woman

--who did not come--who had not the faith, the love, the courage to
come. What did that man expect, what did he hope, what did he want?

The woman--or the certitude immaterial and precious! The first
unselfish thought he had ever given to any human being was for that

man who had tried to do him a terrible wrong. He was not angry. He was
saddened by an impersonal sorrow, by a vast melancholy as of all

mankind longing for what cannot be attained. He felt his fellowship
with every man--even with that man--especially with that man. What did

he think now? Had he ceased to wait--and hope? Would he ever cease to
wait and hope? Would he understand that the woman, who had no courage,

had not the gift--had not the gift!
The clock began to strike, and the deep-toned vibration filled the

room as though with the sound of an enormous bell tolling far away. He
counted the strokes. Twelve. Another day had begun. To-morrow had

come; the mysterious and lying to-morrow that lures men, disdainful of
love and faith, on and on through the poignant futilities of life to

the fittingreward of a grave. He counted the strokes, and gazing at
the grate seemed to wait for more. Then, as if called out, left the

room, walking firmly.
When outside he heard footsteps in the hall and stood still. A bolt

was shot--then another. They were locking up--shutting out his desire
and his deception from the indignantcriticism of a world full of

noble gifts for those who proclaim themselves without stain and
without reproach. He was safe; and on all sides of his dwelling

servile fears and servile hopes slept, dreaming of success, behind the
severe discretion of doors as impenetrable to the truth within as the

granite of tombstones. A lock snapped--a short chain rattled. Nobody
shall know!

Why was this assurance of safety heavier than a burden of fear, and
why the day that began presented itself obstinately like the last day

of all--like a to-day without a to-morrow? Yet nothing was changed,
for nobody would know; and all would go on as before--the getting,

the enjoying, the blessing of hunger that is appeased every day; the
noble incentives of unappeasable ambitions. All--all the blessings

of life. All--but the certitude immaterial and precious--the certitude
of love and faith. He believed the shadow of it had been with him as

long as he could remember; that invisible presence had ruled his life.
And now the shadow had appeared and faded he could not extinguish

his longing for the truth of its substance. His desire of it was
naive; it was masterful like the material aspirations that are the

groundwork of existence, but, unlike these, it was unconquerable. It
was the subtle despotism of an idea that suffers no rivals, that is

lonely, inconsolable, and dangerous. He went slowly up the stairs.
Nobody shall know. The days would go on and he would go far--very far.

If the idea could not be mastered, fortune could be, man could be--the
whole world. He was dazzled by the greatness of the prospect; the

brutality of a practical instinct shouted to him that only that which
could be had was worth having. He lingered on the steps. The lights

were out in the hall, and a small yellow flame flitted about down
there. He felt a sudden contempt for himself which braced him up. He

went on, but at the door of their room and with his arm advanced to
open it, he faltered. On the flight of stairs below the head of the

girl who had been locking up appeared. His arm fell. He thought, "I'll
wait till she is gone"--and stepped back within the perpendicular

folds of a portiere.
He saw her come up gradually, as if ascending from a well. At every

step the feeble flame of the candle swayed before her tired, young
face, and the darkness of the hall seemed to cling to her black skirt,

followed her, rising like a silent flood, as though the great night of
the world had broken through the discreet reserve of walls, of closed

doors, of curtained windows. It rose over the steps, it leaped up the
walls like an angry wave, it flowed over the blue skies, over the

yellow sands, over the sunshine of landscapes, and over the pretty
pathos of raggedinnocence and of meek starvation. It swallowed up

the delicious idyll in a boat and the mutilated immortality of famous
bas-reliefs. It flowed from outside--it rose higher, in a destructive

silence. And, above it, the woman of marble, composed and blind on
the high pedestal, seemed to ward off the devouring night with a

cluster of lights.
He watched the rising tide of impenetrable gloom with impatience, as

if anxious for the coming of a darkness black enough to conceal a
shameful surrender. It came nearer. The cluster of lights went out.

The girl ascended facing him. Behind her the shadow of a colossal
woman danced lightly on the wall. He held his breath while she passed

by, noiseless and with heavy eyelids. And on her track the flowing
tide of a tenebrous sea filled the house, seemed to swirl about his

feet, and rising unchecked, closed silently above his head.
The time had come but he did not open the door. All was still; and

instead of surrendering to the reasonable exigencies of life he
stepped out, with a rebelling heart, into the darkness of the house.

It was the abode of an impenetrable night; as though indeed the last
day had come and gone, leaving him alone in a darkness that has no

to-morrow. And looming vaguely below the woman of marble, livid and
still like a patient phantom, held out in the night a cluster of

extinguished lights.
His obedient thought traced for him the image of an uninterrupted

life, the dignity and the advantages of an uninterrupted success;
while his rebellious heart beat violently within his breast, as if

maddened by the desire of a certitude immaterial and precious--the
certitude of love and faith. What of the night within his dwelling if

outside he could find the sunshine in which men sow, in which men
reap! Nobody would know. The days, the years would pass, and . . . He

remembered that he had loved her. The years would pass . . . And then
he thought of her as we think of the dead--in a tender immensity of

regret, in a passionatelonging for the return of idealized
perfections. He had loved her--he had loved her--and he never knew the

truth . . . The years would pass in the anguish of doubt . . . He
remembered her smile, her eyes, her voice, her silence, as though he

had lost her forever. The years would pass and he would always
mistrust her smile, suspect her eyes; he would always misbelieve her

voice, he would never have faith in her silence. She had no gift--she
had no gift! What was she? Who was she? . . . The years would pass;

the memory of this hour would grow faint--and she would share the
material serenity of an unblemished life. She had no love and no faith

for any one. To give her your thought, your belief, was like
whispering your confession over the edge of the world. Nothing came

back--not even an echo.
In the pain of that thought was born his conscience; not that fear of

remorse which grows slowly, and slowly decays amongst the complicated
facts of life, but a Divine wisdom springing full-grown, armed and

severe out of a tried heart, to combat the secret baseness of motives.
It came to him in a flash that morality is not a method of happiness.

The revelation was terrible. He saw at once that nothing of what he
knew mattered in the least. The acts of men and women, success,

humiliation, dignity, failure--nothing mattered. It was not a
question of more or less pain, of this joy, of that sorrow. It was a

question of truth or falsehood--it was a question of life or death.
He stood in the revealing night--in the darkness that tries the

hearts, in the night useless for the work of men, but in which their
gaze, undazzled by the sunshine of covetous days, wanders sometimes

as far as the stars. The perfect stillness around him had something
solemn in it, but he felt it was the lying solemnity of a temple

devoted to the rites of a debasing persuasion. The silence within the
discreet walls was eloquent of safety but it appeared to him exciting

and sinister, like the discretion of a profitable infamy; it was the
prudent peace of a den of coiners--of a house of ill-fame! The years