But they won't get 'im. Not now, anyway. Can't see two feet in front
of yer, and the tide running out fast."
Stonehouse felt his way to the parapet and peered over. Above the
water the fog was pitch-black and moving. It looked a solid mass. He
could almost hear it slapping softly against the pillars of the bridge
as it flowed seawards. By now Mr. Ricardo had travelled with it a long
way. His death did not seem to Stonehouse tragic, but only inevitable
and ironical. It was as though someone had played a grave and
significant, not unkindly, joke at Mr. Ricardo's expense. Nor did
Stonehouse feel remorse, for he knew that he could have done nothing.
As Mr. Ricardo had said, it was not material things that had mattered.
He had not killed himself because he was starving, but because the long
struggle of his spirit with the enigma of life had reached its crisis.
He had gone out to meet it with a superb gesture of defiance, which had
also been the signal of surrender and acknowledgment.
The crowd had moved on at last. In the muffled silence and darkness
Stonehouse's thoughts became shadowy and fantastic. Though he did not
grieve he knew that a stone had shifted under the foundations of his
mental security. Death took on a new aspect. It seemed unlikely that
it was so simply the end.
He found himself wondering how far Mr. Ricardo had travelled on his
journey, and whether he had met his enemy, and, face to face with him,
had become reconciled.
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