.. horror on
horror ... shame on shame, until my mind reeled sick with loathing.
And she who had driven with the profligate Danby to God alone knew
what infamy--even she would return to act for me her part of sorrowing
wonder--to weep and sigh. Oh, shameful hypocrisy! And with her would
be my aunt and uncles to wonder also and shake grave heads over me,
torturing me with their love while in my consciousness gnawed this
undying horror that, like a demon raged within me, passioning for
utterance, insomuch that day or night I had dreaded lest I babble the
obscenities that haunted me. Better to die than speak! A bullet would
be quick, as Anthony had said--and I had no fire arms! But I
remembered that in the kitchen downstairs I had seen a pistol hung up
in a dark corner and above the mantel hung George's bayonet, at whose
keen point lay silence and oblivion; and this thought had in it a
degree of comfort as I sat crouched in my chair, half-blinded by my
unheroic tears.
The sun had set, the blackbird had ended his song, for evening was
falling apace; against the glimmering dusk bats wheeled and hovered,
and as the shadows deepened I watched the stars shine forth, while low
down in the darkening sky was an effulgence that marked the rising
moon.
Suddenly I arose, moved by a dominating purpose, kicked off my
slippers, struggled into my boots and, taking surtout and hat, strode
resolutely downstairs; by good hap there chanced to be nobody in the
kitchen and, crossing to a certain corner, I took from the wall a
small but serviceable-looking pistol, and having assured myself that
it was primed and loaded, I slipped it into my pocket and stepped out
into the fragrant dusk.
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