When Michael came home, Robert was not there; a bill-head lay near Cadman’s note with the brief announcement—­

“I have left for ever.—­Your affectionate son,

      “ROBERT.”

Michael’s first emotion, strange to say, was something like joy.  He had succeeded, and Robert was removed from the wiles of the tempter.  But when the morning came, he looked again, and he saw the words “for ever,” and he realised that his son had gone; that he would never see him any more; that perhaps he might have committed self-murder.  His human nature got the better of every other nature in him, divine or diabolic, and he was distracted.  He could not pray after his wont; he tried, but he had no utterance; he felt himself rebellious, blasphemous, impious, and he rose from his bedside without a word.  He went out into the street and down to the shore, trembling lest he should hear from the first man he saw that his son’s body had been thrown up on the sand; and then he remembered how Robert could swim, and that he would probably hang a stone round his neck and be at the bottom of some deep pool.  He could not go back; people would ask where his son was, and what could he say?  He had murdered him.  He had thought to save him, and he was dead.  He walked and walked till he could walk no more, and a great horror came on him—­a horror of great darkness.  The Eternal Arms were unclasped, and he felt himself sinking—­into what he knew not.  He could not describe his terror to himself.  It was nameless, shapeless, awful, infinite; and all he could do was to cry out in agony; the words of the Book, even in this his most desperate moment, serving to voice the experience for him—­“My God! my God! why hast Thou forsaken me?” It became intolerable, and his brain began to turn.  He reflected though, even then, upon the disgrace of suicide.  For himself he did not care; for had not God abandoned him? and what worse thing could befall him?  But then his good name, and the brand of infamy which would be affixed to Robert should he still live!  Could he not die so that it might be set down as an accident?  He could swim; and although he had not been often in the water of late years, it would not be thought extraordinary if on a blazing morning he should bathe.  He took off his clothes, and in a moment was in the sea, striking out for the river channel and the ebbing tide, which he knew would bear him away to the ocean.  He saw nothing, heard nothing, till just as he neared the buoy and the fatal eddy was before him, when there escaped from him a cry—­a scream—­a prayer of commitment to Him whom he believed he had so loyally served—­served with such damnable, such treasonable fidelity—­the God who had now turned away from him.