y man may divide of his own free
will are the most oppressive; they are unfelt, unseen, till suddenly
they burn the wrists like fetters of fire, and the poor wretch who wears
them has no power to help himself.

James knew he had not strength for this fearless disregard of others; he
dared not face the pain he would cause. He was acting like a fool; his
kindness was only cowardly. But to be cruel required more courage than
he possessed. If he went away, his anguish would never cease; his vivid
imagination would keep before his mind's eye the humiliation of Mary,
the unhappiness of his people. He pictured the consternation and the
horror when they discovered what he had done. At first they would refuse
to believe that he was capable of acting in so blackguardly a way; they
would think it a joke, or that he was mad. And then the shame when they
realised the truth! How could he make such a return for all the
affection and the gentleness be had received? His father, whom he loved
devotedly, would be utterly crushed.

"It would kill him," muttered James.

And then he thought of his poor mother, affectionate and kind, but
capable of hating him if he acted contrary to her code of honour. Her
immaculate virtue made her very hard; she exacted the highest from
herself, and demanded no less from others. James remembered in his
boyhood how she punished his petty crimes by refusing to speak to him,
going about in cold and angry silence; he had never forgotten the icy
indignation of her face when once she had caught him lying. Oh, these
good people, how pitiless they can be!

He would never have courage to confront the unknown dangers of a new
life, unloved, unknown, unfriended. He was too merciful; his heart bled
at the pain of others, he was constantly afraid of soiling his hands. It
required a more unscrupulous man than he to cut all ties, and push out
into the world with no weapons but intelligence and a ruthless heart.
Above all, he dreaded his remorse. He knew that he would brood over what
he had done till it attained the proportions of a monomania; his
conscience would never give him peace. So long as he lived, the claims
of Mary would call to him, and in the furthermost parts of the earth he
would see her silent agony. James knew himself too well.

And the only solution was that which, in a moment of passionate
bitterness, had come thoughtlessly to his lips:

"I can always shoot myself."

"I hope you won't do anything