A dram of spirits restored the plotter to something of his customary self-possession; and he was standing, glass in hand and genially convalescent, when his eye was attracted by the dejection of the unfortunate young man.
“Good Heavens, dear Somerset,” he cried, “what ails you? Let me offer you a touch of spirits.”
But Somerset had fallen below the reach of this material comfort.
“Let me be,” he said. “I am lost; you have caught me in the toils. Up to this moment, I have lived all my life in the most reckless manner, and done exactly what I pleased, with the most perfect innocence. And now—what am I? Are you so blind and wooden that you do not see the loathing you inspire me with? Is it possible you can suppose me willing to continue to exist upon such terms? To think,” he cried, “that a young man, guilty of no fault on earth but amiability, should find himself involved in such a damned imbroglio!” And, placing his knuckles in his eyes, Somerset rolled upon the sofa.
“My God,” said Zero, “is this possible? And I so filled with tenderness and interest! Can it be, dear Somerset, that you are under the empire of these outworn scruples? or that you judge a patriot by the morality of the religious tract? I thought you were a good agnostic.”
“Mr. Jones,” said Somerset, “it is in vain to argue. I boast myself a total disbeliever not only in revealed religion, but in the data, method, and conclusions of the whole of ethics. Well! what matters it? what signifies a form of words? I regard you as a reptile, whom I would rejoice, whom I long, to stamp under my heel. You would blow up others? Well then, understand: I want, with every circumstance of infamy and agony, to blow up you!”
“Somerset, Somerset!” said Zero, turning very pale, “this is wrong; this is very wrong. You pain, you wound me, Somerset.”
“Give me a match!” cried Somerset wildly. “Let me set fire to this incomparable monster! Let me perish with him in his fall!”
“For God’s sake,” cried Zero, clutching hold of the young man, “for God’s sake command yourself! We stand upon the brink; death yawns around us; a man—a stranger in this foreign land—one whom you have called your friend——”
“Silence!” cried Somerset, “you are no friend, no friend of mine. I look on you with loathing, like a toad: my flesh creeps with physical repulsion; my soul revolts against the sight of you.”