She tried to comfort him, but he put her away. "No, it's all wrong. I'm going to give it up, and try something else."
After she had gone, he put his easel and paints away, and set the house in order. Then he went into the city, as so many have done before, to find work, which seems little enough to ask in so great a world. At five he returned, utterly tired and cast down. He had tramped the streets for hours and had found absolutely nothing to do.
Half unconsciously, he turned to the window—to the vision of the lake which had meant strength before, but it brought only weakness now. "Come,—come—come—" the waves seemed to say—instead of being cold and cruel, they were promising infinite rest. And it meant a luxurious home for Katherine.
His decision was quickly made, and he wrote a tender note to leave for her. He sobbed over that—for it wasn't like painting—he was putting his heart into it. Then down to the inland sea he went, those impatient arms beckoning him still.
But Katherine had felt in the office that something was wrong with Robert. A pang of sudden fear made it impossible for her to work any longer, and she hurried home. She found the note at once, and seeing only the "good-bye" at the end she hastened to the door.
"Robert, Robert!" she called, but he was too far away to hear her. And Katherine ran, crying as she went, "Dear God, make me in time!"
He stood at the end of the pier, old and decayed as it was, and looked at the sea and sky for the last time. The sunset gates behind him, royally beautiful with purple and gold, seemed a glimpse of the heaven he hardly hoped to reach, for though he knew that God was infinitely merciful, he knew that He was also infinitely just. He took off his coat and laid it on the pier, just as Katherine, breathless, excited, her face tense with appeal, appeared beside him.
His eyes lighted for a moment at the sight of her, then returned to their dull, hopeless look. "It's no use, Katherine," he said unsteadily, "go back, darling."