She leaned over the rail, with the cool, soft, refreshing air bathing her burning forehead, and watched one brilliant point of light—soft and lambent—that was near the surface, and then moved slowly down lower and lower into the dark depths that seemed beyond fathoming; and, as she watched it, the fancy came upon her that these points of light might be lives like hers, wearied out and now resting and gliding here and there in the soft transparent darkness at her feet.
Father—brother—sister—Richard Linnell—her past cares—all appeared distant and strange, and she had no more control over herself than has one in a dream. There was that weariness of spirit—of a spirit that had been whipped and spurred until jaded beyond endurance—that weariness that asked for rest—rest at whatever cost; and whispered that rest could only come in the great sleep—the last.
It did not seem like death, to step from the end of the pier into the dark water. There was nothing horrible therein. On the contrary, it wooed and beckoned her to its breast, offering utter oblivion when, in her more lucid moments, she felt she must go mad.
As if guided by instinct more than her own will, she turned at last from the rail and took a few steps in the darkness towards the side where the damp salt-soaked flight of steps led to the platform below—the rough landing-stage beneath where she had been standing.
Here, as she stood close to the edge with the black piles looming up around, she fancied they were the whisperers as the water heaved and plashed, and rippled and fell. There was no rail here between her and the rest that seemed to ask her to sink down into its arms, now that she was so weary, and unconsciously she was standing where her brother had stood and listened many months ago at the footsteps overhead, as he enjoyed his stolen pleasure in the middle of the night.
But there was no heavy step now—no voice to break the curious spell that was upon her, drawing her away from life, and bidding her sleep.
She was not afraid; she was not excited. Everything seemed to her dull and dreamy and restful, as she stood on the very verge of the open platform, with the water now only a few inches from her feet, leaning more and more over, till the slightest further movement would have overbalanced her, and she would have fallen in, to sink without a cry.
She hardly started as a firm hand gripped her arm, and she was drawn sharply back, to be held tightly by him who had followed her below, watching her every action and standing close behind her in the darkness with outstretched hands.
“Miss Denville—Claire—for heaven’s sake, what does this mean?”
She did not struggle, but turned round slowly, and looked in the dimly seen face.