Peter Ramsay had rather a contempt for love. It was to him a physiological disease, the violence of which argued a lack of self-control. And the beautiful girl who had never seen a sixpence, though very charming, appeared to him to be a most unsuitable wife for any man. For his idea of a wife was distinctly some one who could comfort and coddle, and--without open words--prevent one from making an ass of oneself.
Yes! he had made an ass of himself; but, concerning No. 36, there was no reason why he should not take his own way. After all, there was nothing but life. The metaphysicians would put thought first, but it was "Ergo sum, cogito," not the converse--at any rate to common-sense.
Nothing was susceptible to absolute proof except life and death, and they probably were mere conditions of matter.
As he looked out, the light waves from the faintly declining sun were turning the invisible vapour about the higher hills into a filmy mist-veil which seemed to hang between him and the distant view. His eye seemed to detect in it a ceaseless shimmer, an almost imperceptible vibration.
That was it, truly! The motes in a sunbeam--even he himself for that matter--were but transient aggregations of the atoms in their unending dance of life and death. What would they hive into, like swarming bees? A man or a mouse--who could tell? Only the master of the ceremonies in this dance macabre. So the question of life or death was already settled for No. 36, though, so far as he--Peter Ramsay--was concerned, it depended on the existence or non-existence of that miserable pittance of a hundred pounds. But all the sanctions, all the mental and moral backings of humanity, depended on something which could not be proved to exist.
He rose with a shrug of the shoulders, put out his pipe, and started on again. Life or death seemed to him to hang on that hundred pounds. He did not much care which; the odds were distinctly on death.
As he turned ere dipping down into the valley which lay between him and the gap, he gave a last look at the silver shield of the estuary. The boat must have reached the shelter of the further shadow--unless it had gone down! Life and Death--Death and Life! An even balance, despite the surgeon's skill; despite even money.
As a matter of fact, the boat had at last reached the opposite shore, and Ned Blackborough, feeling savage with himself and Fate, was standing by holding the rope taut, while Ted, visibly triumphant, was lifting Aura bodily from the boat across the intervening yards of slush and seaweed.
He set her down gently with a frank "That's all right," and she, looking up at him, smiled her thanks.
"I'm so sorry you hurt your arm," she said to Ned rather condescendingly. "It is lucky Ted could row so well, isn't it?"