innocent child into a woman--with a woman's capacity for devotion
and self-sacrifice. She had given everything, with trust and
gladness. And he had taken all she gave, with colossal egoism, as
his right--accepting lightly all she surrendered with no thought
for the innocence he contaminated, the purity he soiled. He had
stained her soul before he had killed her body. His hands clenched
and unclenched convulsively with the agony of remorse. Recollection
was torture. Repentance came too late. _Too late! Too late!_ he words
kept singing in his head as if a demon from hell was howling them
in his ear. Nothing on earth could undo what he had done. No power
could animate that little dead body. And if she had lived! He
shuddered. But she had not lived, she had died--because of him.
Because of him, Merciful God, because of him! And he could make no
restitution. What was there left for him to do? A life of expiation
was not atonement enough. There seemed only one solution--a life
for a life. And that was no reparation, only justice. He put no
value on his own life--he wished vaguely that the worth of it were
greater--he had merely wasted it and now he had forfeited it.
Remained only to end it--now. There was no reason for delay. He
had no preparations to make. His affairs were all in order. His heir
was his aunt, his father's only sister, who would be a better guardian
of the Craven estates and interests than he had ever been. Peters
was independent and Yoshio provided for. There was nothing to be done.
He rose and opening a drawer in the table took out a revolver and held
it a moment in his hand, looking at it dispassionately. It was not the
ultimate purpose for which it had been intended. He had never imagined
a time when he might end his own life. He had always vaguely connected
suicide with cowardice. Was it the coward's way? Perhaps! Who can say
what cowardice or courage is required to take the blind leap into the
Great Unknown? That did not trouble him. It was no question of courage