ItwasdarknightwhenIlefthisdeathbedandwentbacktomyowninndownthestragglingstreetofLuzon。
　　Thatreturntomyinnsticksinmymemoryalsoasathingapart，asanexperienceapart。Withinwasasubduedbustleofwomen，aflittingoflights，andthedoingofpettyofficestothatqueer，exhaustedthingthathadoncebeenmyactiveandurgentlittleuncle。Formethoseofficeswereirksomeandimpertinent。I
　　slammedthedoor，andwentoutintothewarm，foggydrizzleofthevillagestreetlitbyblurredspecksoflightingreatvoidsofdarkness，andneverasoulabroad。Thatwarmveiloffogproducedaneffectofvastseclusion。Theveryhousesbytheroadsidepeeredthroughitasiffromanotherworld。Thestillnessofthenightwasmarkedbyanoccasionalremotebayingofdogs；allthesepeoplekeptdogsbecauseofthenearneighbourhoodofthefrontier。
　　Death！
　　Itwasoneofthoserareseasonsofrelief，whenforalittletimeonewalksalittleoutsideofandbesidelife。IfeltasI
　　sometimesfeelaftertheendofaplay。Isawthewholebusinessofmyuncle’slifeassomethingfamiliarandcompleted。Itwasdone，likeaplayoneleaves，likeabookonecloses。Ithoughtofthepushandthepromotions，thenoiseofLondon，thecrowded，variouscompanyofpeoplethroughwhichourliveshadgone，thepublicmeetings，theexcitements，thedinnersanddisputations，andsuddenlyitappearedtomethatnoneofthesethingsexisted。
　　Itcametomelikeadiscoverythatnoneofthesethingsexisted。
　　BeforeandafterIhavethoughtandcalledlifeaphantasmagoria，butneverhaveIfeltitstruthasIdidthatnight。Wehadparted；wetwowhohadkeptcompanysolonghadparted。Buttherewas，Iknew，noendtohimorme。Hehaddiedadreamdeath，andendedadream；hispaindreamwasover。ItseemedtomealmostasthoughIhaddied，too。Whatdiditmatter，sinceitwasunreality，allofit，thepainanddesire，thebeginningandtheend？Therewasnorealityexceptthissolitaryroad，thisquitesolitaryroad，alongwhichonewentratherpuzzled，rathertired。
　　Partofthefogbecameabigmastiffthatcametowardsmeandstoppedandslunkroundme，growling，barkedgruffly，andshortlyandpresentlybecamefogagain。
　　Mymindswayedbacktotheancientbeliefsandfearsofourrace。
　　Mydoubtsanddisbeliefsslippedfrommelikealooselyfittinggarment。Iwonderedquitesimplywhatdogsbayedaboutthepathofthatotherwalkerinthedarkness，whatshapes，whatlights，itmightbe，loomedabouthimashewenthiswayfromourlastencounteronearth——alongthepathsthatarereal，andthewaythatenduresforever？
　　Lastbelatedfigureinthatgroupingroundmyuncle’sdeathbedismyaunt。WhenitwasbeyondallhopethatmyunclecouldliveIthrewasidewhateverconcealmentremainedtousandtelegrapheddirectlytoher。Butshecametoolatetoseehimliving。Shesawhimcalmandstill，strangelyunlikehishabitualgarrulousanimation，anunfamiliarinflexibility。
　　“Itisn’tlikehim。”shewhispered，awedbythisaliendignity。
　　Irememberherchieflyasshetalkedandweptuponthebridgebelowtheoldcastle。WehadgotridofsomeamateurishreportersfromBiarritz，andhadwalkedtogetherinthehotmorningsunshinedownthroughPortLuzon。There，foratime，westoodleaningontheparapetofthebridgeandsurveyingthedistantpeeks，therichbluemassesofthePyrenees。Foralongtimewesaidnothing，andthenshebegantalking。
　　“Life’sarumGo，George！”shebegan。“Whowouldhavethought，whenIusedtodarnyourstockingsatoldWimblehurst，thatthiswouldbetheendofthestory？Itseemsfarawaynow——thatlittleshop，hisandmyfirsthome。Theglowofthebottles，thebigcolouredbottles！Doyourememberhowthelightshoneonthemahoganydrawers？Thelittlegiltletters！OlAmjig，andSnap！Icanrememberitall——brightandshining——likeaDutchpicture。Real！Andyesterday。Andhereweareinadream。Youaman——andmeanoldwoman，George。AndpoorlittleTeddy，whousedtorushaboutandtalk——makingthatnoisehedid——Oh！”
　　Shechoked，andthetearsflowedunrestrained。Shewept，andI
　　wasgladtoseeherweeping。
　　Shestoodleaningoverthebridge；hertear-wethandkerchiefgrippedinherclenchedhand。
　　“Justanhourintheoldshopagain——andhimtalking。Beforethingsgotdone。Beforetheygotholdofhim。Andfooledhim。
　　“Menoughtn’ttobesotemptedwithbusinessandthings。
　　“Theydidn’thurthim，George？”sheaskedsuddenly。
　　ForamomentIwaspuzzled。
　　“Here，Imean。”shesaid。
　　“No。”Iliedstoutly，suppressingthememoryofthatfoolishinjectionneedleIhadcaughttheyoungdoctorusing。
　　“Iwonder，George，ifthey’lllethimtalkinHeaven。”
　　Shefacedme。“Oh！George，dear，myheartaches，andIdon’tknowwhatIsayanddo。Givemeyourarmtoleanon——it’sgoodtohaveyou，dear，andleanuponyou。Yes，Iknowyoucareforme。That’swhyI’mtalking。We’vealwayslovedoneanother，andneversaidanythingaboutit，andyouunderstand，andI
　　understand。Butmyheart’storntopiecesbythis，torntorags，andthingsdropoutI’vekeptinit。It’struehewasn’tahusbandmuchformeatthelast。Buthewasmychild，George，hewasmychildandallmychildren，mysillychild，andlifehasknockedhimaboutforme，andI’veneverhadasayinthematter；
　　neverasay；it’spuffedhimupandsmashedhim——likeanoldbag——undermyeyes。Iwascleverenoughtoseeit，andnotcleverenoughtopreventit，andallIcoulddowastojeer。
　　I’vehadtomakewhatIcouldofit。Likemostpeople。Likemostofus。Butitwasn’tfair，George。Itwasn’tfair。LifeandDeath——greatseriousthings——whycouldn’ttheyleavehimalone，andhisliesandways？IfWEcouldseethelightnessofit——
　　“Whycouldn’ttheyleavehimalone？”sherepeatedinawhisperaswewenttowardstheinn。
　　WhenIcamebackIfoundthatmyshareintheescapeanddeathofmyunclehadmademeforatimeanotoriousandevenpopularcharacter。FortwoweeksIwaskeptinLondon“facingthemusic。”ashewouldhavesaid，andmakingthingseasyformyaunt，andIstillmarvelattheconsiderationwithwhichtheworldtreatedme。FornowitwasopenandmanifestthatIandmyunclewerenomorethanspecimensofamodernspeciesofbrigand，wastingthesavingsofthepublicoutofthesheerwantonnessofenterprise。Ithinkthatinaway，hisdeathproducedareactioninmyfavourandmyflight，ofwhichsomeparticularsnowappearedstuckinthepopularimagination。Itseemedamoredaringanddifficultfeatthanitwas，andIcouldn’tverywellwritetothepaperstosustainmyprivateestimate。Therecanbelittledoubtthatmeninfinitelyprefertheappearanceofdashandenterprisetosimplehonesty。NoonebelievedIwasnotanarchplotterinhisfinancing。Yettheyfavouredme。IevengotpermissionfromthetrusteetooccupymychaletforafortnightwhileIclearedupthemassofpapers，calculations，notesofwork，drawingsandthelike，thatIleftindisorderwhenIstartedonthatimpulsiveraidupontheMordetquapheaps。
　　Iwastherealone。IgotworkforCothopewiththeIlchesters，forwhomInowbuildthesedestroyers。Theywantedhimatonce，andhewasshortofmoney，soIlethimgoandmanagedveryphilosophicallybymyself。
　　ButIfoundithardtofixmyattentiononaeronautics，Ihadbeenawayfromtheworkforafullhalf-yearandmore，ahalf-yearcrowdedwithintensedisconcertingthings。Foratimemybrainrefusedthesefineproblemsofbalanceandadjustmentaltogether；itwantedtothinkaboutmyuncle’sdroppingjaw，myaunt’sreluctanttears，aboutdeadnegroesandpestilentialswamps，abouttheevidentrealitiesofcrueltyandpain，aboutlifeanddeath。Moreover，itwaswearywiththefrightfulpileoffiguresanddocumentsattheHardingham，atasktowhichthisraidtoLadyGrovewassimplyaninterlude。AndtherewasBeatrice。
　　Onthesecondmorning，asIsatoutupontheverandarecallingmemoriesandstrivinginvaintoattendtosometoosuccinctpencilnotesofCothope’s，Beatricerodeupsuddenlyfrombehindthepavilion，andpulledreinandbecamestill；Beatrice，alittleflushedfromridingandsittingonabigblackhorse。
　　Ididnotinstantlyrise。Istaredather。“YOU！”Isaid。
　　Shelookedatmesteadily。“Me。”shesaidIdidnottroubleaboutanycivilities。Istoodupandaskedpointblankaquestionthatcameintomyhead。
　　“Whosehorseisthat？”Isaid。
　　Shelookedmeintheeyes。“Carnaby’s。”sheanswered。
　　“Howdidyougethere——thisway？”
　　“Thewall’sdown。”
　　“Down？Already？”
　　“Agreatbitofitbetweentheplantations。”
　　“Andyourodethrough，andgotherebychance？”
　　“Isawyouyesterday。AndIrodeovertoseeyou。”Ihadnowcomeclosetoher，andstoodlookingupintoherface。
　　“I’mamerevestige。”Isaid。
　　Shemadenoanswer，butremainedregardingmesteadfastlywithacuriousairofproprietorship。
　　“YouknowI’mthelivingsurvivornowofthegreatsmash。I’mrollinganddroppingdownthroughallthescaffoldingofthesocialsystem。It’sallachancewhetherIrolloutfreeatthebottom，orgodownacrackintothedarknessoutofsightforayearortwo。”