Pyramids of snow

by Edith Metcalfe

"It's a little over four pounds, sir. Will you write a cheque?"

"No, I won't," said Melville shortly. "Go to the Burlington Arcade and tell my hosiers to send me over three dozen, and put them down in my account."

"Yes, sir," said the valet civilly, and left the room.

Melville laughed when the door closed behind the servant. When the devil laughs it is time for good folks to beware, and Melville felt like a fiend at that moment. It was grotesquely funny that he could get three dozen shirts on credit, but had not the money to pay his washerwoman. But the fact was a staggering reminder of his real position. He got up preparatory to going out, when he remembered that he had still to shave; he went, therefore, into his bedroom, and, having stropped his razor, took off his collar and tie and began to make a lather for his face.

And then suddenly the idea came to him with the force of a conviction that the way out of his trouble lay plain before him. It was the cowardly way which it yet requires a measure of courage to take. Death was the solution of the problem. He did not know how to live, but it was very simple to die. He sat down in a chair and, almost closing his eyes, peered at his reflection in the mirror. Very little paler—only with eyes quite closed—he would not look very different presently if he did this thing. And, unless his courage failed him in the act, it would not hurt. Then what would happen? The scene here, in this room, with the dead body stretched upon the floor, was easy to imagine. It might not be very appalling. Had he ever contemplated such a deed before he would have provided himself with some poison, which, while it was as fatal as the razor blade, would not disfigure him; for to the living man the idea of being disfigured after death is always repugnant. But he had no poison, and here was the razor ready to his hand. He would be found quite soon—but it must not be too soon—and he rose and stealthily locked the outer door.

Again he sat before the impassive mirror. There was no one who would care. In all the world, so far as Melville knew, there was no one who would care if he were dead, only a few who would resent the manner of his dying.

He had nothing left to lose. Penniless and friendless in the present, bankrupt of hope for the future, he had nothing material left to lose, at any rate, and he stood to gain emancipation from an environment to which he had ceased to be adapted.

He would have to draw the blade across his throat—so! He must do it very strongly, very swiftly, or he would fail.

The man leant forward on the dressing-table and gazed closely at himself in the glass; he saw exactly where he must make the gash, and without any hesitation or nervousness he felt the edge of the razor with the thumb of his left hand. As he did so he cut the skin, and some blood fell upon the snow-white cover of the table. In the extraordinary mental state in which he was, the horrible incongruity in his reasoning did not strike him, but, in actual fact, the bloodstain on the cloth gave him offence, and he paused and looked around him. This—would make such a mess! And there was a revolver in his bag. How stupid of him not to have remembered that! It had another advantage, too, for people might think the pistol had gone off by accident while he was cleaning it, whereas there could be no doubt about the intention in the other case. It mattered a great deal what people would think.

He laid down the razor on a chest of drawers and removed the soiled toilet cover from the dressing table. Then he went to his bag to take out his revolver. The valet had disarranged the contents of the bag, and Melville turned over a lot of things and could not find the little pistol case. Instead, his hand fell upon a heap of letters, and on the top of them was the one that had come to him from Ralph asking for a loan of a hundred pounds.