s name. It menaced him in each solution of the problem of
his future life. He could do little without smirching that honored name.
He might take his own life. But that would be to punish the innocent and
to reward the guilty. His wealth would become the gilding of adultery,
and her joy would become perfect in his death. Imagine him asleep in the
grave, while she laughed over his ashes, crying to herself: always a
fool. He might kill her, or him, or both; a short punishment for a long
treason, and then the trail of viperous blood over the name of Endicott
forever; not blood but slime; not a tragedy, but the killing of rats in
a cellar; and perhaps a place for himself in a padded cell, legally mad.

He might desert her, go away without explanation, and never see her
again. That would be putting the burden of shame on his own shoulders,
in exile and a branded man for her sake. She would still have his name,
his income, her lover, her place in society, her right to explain his
absence at her pleasure. He could ruin her ruined life by exposing her.
Then would come the divorce court, the publicity, the leer of the mob,
the pointed fingers of scorn. Impossible! Why could he not leave the
matter untouched and keep up appearances before the world? Least
endurable of any scheme. He knew that he could never meet her again
without killing her, unless this problem was settled. When he had
determined on what he should do, he might get courage to look on her
face once more.

He wore the day out in vain thought, varying the dulness by stamping
about the pond, by swimming across it, by studying its pleasant
features. There was magic in it. When he stripped off his clothes and
flung them on the bank part of his grief went with them. When he plunged
into the lovable water, not only did grief leave him, but Horace
Endicott returned; that Horace who once swam a boy in such lakes, and
went hilarious with the wild joy of living. He dashed about the pool in
a gay frenzy, revelling in the sensation that tragedy had no part in his
life, that sorrow and shame had not yet once come nigh him. The shore
and the donning of his garments were like clouds pouring themselves out
on the sunlit earth. He could hardly bear it, and hung about listlessly
before he could persuade himself to dress.

"Surely you are my one friend," he said to the quiet water. "Is it that
you feel certain of giving me my last sleep, my last kiss as you steal
the breath from me?