The time had come but he did not open the door.  All was still; and instead of surrendering to the reasonable exigencies of life he stepped out, with a rebelling heart, into the darkness of the house.  It was the abode of an impenetrable night; as though indeed the last day had come and gone, leaving him alone in a darkness that has no to-morrow.  And looming vaguely below the woman of marble, livid and still like a patient phantom, held out in the night a cluster of extinguished lights.

His obedient thought traced for him the image of an uninterrupted life, the dignity and the advantages of an uninterrupted success; while his rebellious heart beat violently within his breast, as if maddened by the desire of a certitude immaterial and precious—­the certitude of love and faith.  What of the night within his dwelling if outside he could find the sunshine in which men sow, in which men reap!  Nobody would know.  The days, the years would pass, and . . .  He remembered that he had loved her.  The years would pass . . .  And then he thought of her as we think of the dead—­in a tender immensity of regret, in a passionate longing for the return of idealized perfections.  He had loved her—­he had loved her—­and he never knew the truth . . .  The years would pass in the anguish of doubt . . .  He remembered her smile, her eyes, her voice, her silence, as though he had lost her forever.  The years would pass and he would always mistrust her smile, suspect her eyes; he would always misbelieve her voice, he would never have faith in her silence.  She had no gift—­she had no gift!  What was she?  Who was she? . . .  The years would pass; the memory of this hour would grow faint—­and she would share the material serenity of an unblemished life.  She had no love and no faith for any one.  To give her your thought, your belief, was like whispering your confession over the edge of the world.  Nothing came back—­not even an echo.

In the pain of that thought was born his conscience; not that fear of remorse which grows slowly, and slowly decays amongst the complicated facts of life, but a Divine wisdom springing full-grown, armed and severe out of a tried heart, to combat the secret baseness of motives.  It came to him in a flash that morality is not a method of happiness.  The revelation was terrible.  He saw at once that nothing of what he knew mattered in the least.  The acts of men and women, success, humiliation, dignity, failure—­nothing mattered.  It was not a question of more or less pain, of this joy, of that sorrow.  It was a question of truth or falsehood—­it was a question of life or death.

He stood in the revealing night—­in the darkness that tries the hearts, in the night useless for the work of men, but in which their gaze, undazzled by the sunshine of covetous days, wanders sometimes as far as the stars.  The perfect stillness around him had something solemn in it, but he felt it was the lying solemnity of a temple devoted to the rites of a debasing persuasion.  The silence within the discreet walls was eloquent of safety but it appeared to him exciting and sinister, like the discretion of a profitable infamy; it was the prudent peace of a den of coiners—­of a house of ill-fame!  The years would pass—­and nobody would know.  Never!  Not till death—­not after . . .