It came now
to Herrick, with the authority of a revelation. There was no escape
possible. The open door was closed in his recreant face. He must go back
into the world and amongst men without illusion. He must stagger on to
the end with the pack of his responsibility and his disgrace, until
a cold, a blow, a merciful chance ball, or the more merciful hangman,
should dismiss him from his infamy. There were men who could commit
suicide; there were men who could not; and he was one who could not.

For perhaps a minute, there raged in his mind the coil of this
discovery; then cheerless certitude followed; and, with an incredible
simplicity of submission to ascertained fact, he turned round and
struck out for shore. There was a courage in this which he could not
appreciate; the ignobility of his cowardice wholly occupying him. A
strong current set against him like a wind in his face; he contended
with it heavily, wearily, without enthusiasm, but with substantial
advantage; marking his progress the while, without pleasure, by the
outline of the trees. Once he had a moment of hope. He heard to the
southward of him, towards the centre of the lagoon, the wallowing of
some great fish, doubtless a shark, and paused for a little, treading
water. Might not this be the hangman? he thought. But the wallowing died
away; mere silence succeeded; and Herrick pushed on again for the shore,
raging as he went at his own nature. Ay, he would wait for the shark;
but if he had heard him coming!... His smile was tragic. He could have
spat upon himself.

About three in the morning, chance, and the set of the current, and the
bias of his own right-handed body, so decided it between them that he
came to shore upon the beach in front of Attwater's. There he sat down,
and looked forth into a world without any of the lights of hope. The
poor diving dress of self-conceit was sadly tattered! With the fairy
tale of suicide, of a refuge always open to him, he had hitherto
beguiled and supported himself in the trials of life; and behold!
that also was only a fairy tale, that also was folk-lore. With the
consequences of his acts he saw himself implacably confronted for the
duration of life: stretched upon a cross, and nailed there with the iron
bolts of his own cowardice. He had no tears; he told himself no stories.
His disgust with himself was so complete that even the process of
apologetic mythology had ceased. He was like a man cast down from a
pillar,