When I awoke all was dark. My throat was parched, there was a horrible racking pain in my head, a nauseating faintness at my heart. But worse than this was the torment of remorse which weighed me down. I had placed myself on a level with my curse, had proved myself worthy of it. There was no excuse for the shameful excess in which I had indulged. A hypocrite, self-convicted, I had become a willing slave to the vice I had condemned, and I could now take rank with the abandoned creatures from whom I had shrank in horror.

With difficulty I rose from the floor, upsetting furniture in the effort, and felt my way to my bedroom, where I plunged my head into a basin of cold water, keeping it there for some time, and sucking in the water like a dog. As I stood dripping, in the darkness, I heard a kind of sing-song proceeding from Barbara's room. Stealing into the passage, I listened to the drivel. "Beast John is drunk—dead, dead drunk! He preaches, preaches, preaches—Oh, the good man! Maxwell knows, his mother knows, Louis knows. Ha, ha, ha! How funny! Beast John is drunk—dead, dead drunk! Now let him preach—now let him write to the papers." There was no method in her singing, no rythmical arrangement of the insane song. The words dropped from her lips in disjointed fashion, and there was a taunting exultation in her utterance of them.

A frightful temptation assailed me—to kill her and myself, and be done with the world. "What matter?" I muttered. "There is no God! If there were He would not permit such women to live." Even at this distance of time—yes, even though I know that my days are numbered—I am thankful that some mysterious force within me leaped up to fight the demon that would have damned my soul. I was conscious of the inward conflict, the conflict of the two spirits, the good and the evil, which are said to be forever warring for supremacy in a man's heart. I hope I may say now (though I did not believe so then) that my suffering had not crushed all the good out of me, and that there was still some vitality in the better impulses of my being. I did not openly recant the impious words I had muttered; my mood was too sullen for that. I was ready for sin, but not for crime. My life was mine, and I could do with it as I pleased, but it was not within my right to dispose of the life of another mortal. Brooding upon this I fled from the house as from a pestilence.

Intent upon self-destruction, I bent my steps riverwards. It was a wretched night. Rain was falling heavily, and there was no light in the sky. The spirit of black death brooded over the city. It was as if nature favored my sinful purpose—or so I chose to interpret the signs.

There were but few persons about; I took no notice of them, nor they of me. Small incidents became unduly magnified. I had walked some three or four miles, and was in the immediate vicinity of Westminster Abbey when the cathedral clock began to strike. I paused and listened with extreme attention, standing quite motionless and counting the strokes till the hour was fully announced. It appeared to me a singular and unusual thing that it should be three o'clock; singular, also, that the rain should have ceased, and that a fog was creeping over the streets.

It was only when I was again in motion that the significance of time, in relation to the purpose I had in view, impressed me. "Three o'clock," I thought. "At four I shall be dead." Crossing the road at the top of Parliament Street a man, passing hastily, stumbled against me. In a spirit of fury I grappled and threw him to the ground—and stood over him, ready to stamp on him if he showed resistance. All my senses were alert for evil. The man did not stir, and I passed on. But I had not proceeded far before I stopped to consider whether I had killed him. I groped my way back to the spot upon which I had left him. The man was gone. I was neither glad nor sorry.

A woman—one of the misery's children—accosted me; appealed to me, for the love of God, to give her a penny for a cup of coffee. The coffee stall, which I had not seen, was within a dozen yards of us; its lights shone dim through the fog, and shadowy, ghost-like forms hung about it. I gave the woman a shilling, and continued on my way. I was now on Westminster Bridge. The fog was thickening. I could scarcely see the water. The dull reflection of the lamps on the Embankment added to the general despondency of the scene. I was enwrapped in gloom and silence. I walked to the end of the bridge, and stood on the steps leading down to the river.

Upon what a slight foundation rests a man's fate! A chance turning this way or that, a moment's hesitation, may make or mar, may lead to destruction or salvation. I heard the muffled tread of a policeman, and fearing that I had been seen, and my purpose discovered, I did not descend the steps, but crossing the road, walked slowly towards Kennington, intending presently to return and carry out my sinful design. The probability is that I had not been seen, and should not have been interrupted, for the policeman did not follow me, and the echo of his footsteps gradually died away. When I was assured of this I should have turned again towards the river had not a simple incident changed the whole current of my life. The sound of a woman's suppressed sobs fell upon my ear.