I Louis had wakened up a few minutes before Rachel returned to the bedroom from that most wonderfully conscientious² spell of silver-cleaning. He was relieved to find himself alone. He was ill, perhaps very ill, but he felt unquestionably better than in the night. He was delivered from the appalling³ fear of death which had tortured and frightened him, and his thankfulness was intense; and yet at the same time he was aware of a sort of heroical sentimental⁴ regret that he was not, after all, dead; he would almost have preferred to die with grandeur⁵, young, unfortunate, wept for by an inconsolable wife doomed⁶ to everlasting⁷ widowhood. He was ashamed of his bodily improvement, which rendered him uncomfortably self-conscious, for he had behaved as though dying when, as the event proved, he was not dying.
 
When Rachel came in, this self-consciousness grew terrible. And in his weakness, his constraint⁸, his febrile perturbation which completely destroyed presence of mind, he feebly remarked—
 
"Did any one call yesterday to ask how I was?"
 
As soon as he had said it he knew that it was inept⁹, and quite unsuitable to the role which he ought to play.
 
Rachel had gone straight to the dressing-table, apparently¹⁰ ignoring him, though she could not possibly have failed to notice that he was awake. She turned sharply and gazed at him with a look of inimical contempt that aggrieved¹¹ and scarified him very acutely. Making no answer to his query¹², content solely¹³ to condemn¹⁴ it with her eyes as egotistic and vain, she said—
 
"I'm going to make you some food."
 
And then she curtly¹⁵ showed him her bent¹⁶ back, and over the foot of the bed he could see her preparations—preliminary stirring with a spoon, the placing of the bright tin saucepan on the lamp, the opening of the wick, seizing of the match-box.
 
As soon as the cooking was in train, she threw up the window wide and then came to the bed.
 
"I'll just put your bed to rights again," she remarked, and seized the pillow, waiting implacably for him to raise his head. He had to raise his head.
 
"I'm very ill," he moaned.
 
She replied in a tone of calm indifference¹⁷—
 
"I know you are. But you'll soon be better. You're getting a little better every hour." And she finished arranging the bed, which was presently in a state of smooth geometrical correctness. He could find no fault with her efficiency, nor with her careful handling of his sensitive body. But the hard, the marmoreal cruelty of his wife's spirit exquisitely¹⁸ wounded his soul, which, after all, was at least as much in need of consolation¹⁹ as his body. He was positively²⁰ daunted²¹.
 
 
II
He had passed through dreadful moments in the early part of the night while Rachel slept. When he had realized that he was doomed—for the conviction that death was upon him had been absolutely sincere and final for a long time—he was panic-stricken, impressed, and strangely proud, all at once. But the panic was paramount²². He was afraid, horribly afraid. His cowardice²³ was ghastly, even to himself, shot through though it was by a peculiar²⁴ appreciation²⁵ of the grandiosity²⁶ of his fate as a martyr²⁷ to clumsy chance. He was reduced by it to the trembling repentant²⁸ sinner, as the proud prisoner is reduced to abjection²⁹ by prolonged and secret torture in Oriental prisons. He ranged in fright over the whole of his career, and was obliged to admit, and to admit with craven obsequiousness³⁰, that he had been a wicked man, obstinate³¹ in wickedness.
 
He remembered matters which had utterly³² vanished from his memory. He remembered, for example, the excellence³³ of his moral aspirations³⁴ when he had first thought of Rachel as a wife, and the firm, high resolves which were to be carried out if he married her. Forgotten! Forgotten! As soon as he had won her he had thought of nothing but self-indulgence, pleasure, capricious delights. His tailor still languished³⁵ for money long justly due. He had not even restored the defalcations in Horrocleave's petty cash. Of course it would have been difficult to restore a sum comparatively so large without causing suspicion. To restore it would have involved a long series of minute acts, alterations³⁶ of alterations in the cash entries, and constant ingenuity³⁷ in a hundred ways. But it ought to have been done, and might have been done. It might have been done. He admitted that candidly³⁸, fully¹, with despicable tremblings....
 
And the worst of all, naturally, was the theft from his aunt. Theft? Was it a theft? He had never before consented to define the affair as a theft; it had been a misfortune, an indiscretion. But now he was ready to call it a theft, in order to be on the safe side. For the sake of placating³⁹ Omnipotence⁴⁰ let it be deemed a theft, and even a mean theft, entailing⁴¹ dire⁴² consequences on a weak old woman! Let it be as bad as the severest judge chose to make it! He would not complain. He would accept the arraignment⁴³ (though really he had not been so blameworthy, etc....). He knew that with all his sins he, possessed⁴⁴ the virtues⁴⁵ of good nature, kindness, and politeness. He was not wholly vile⁴⁶. In some ways he honestly considered himself a model to mankind.
 
And then he had recalled certain information received in childhood from authoritative⁴⁷ persons about the merciful goodness of God. His childhood had been rather ceremoniously religious, for his step-uncle, the Lieutenant-General, was a great defender⁴⁸ of Christianity as well as of the British Empire. The Lieutenant-General had even written a pamphlet against a ribald iconoclastic⁴⁹ book published by the Rationalist Press Association, in which pamphlet he had made a sorry mess of Herbert Spencer. All the Lieutenant-General's relatives and near admirers went to church, and they all went to precisely⁵⁰ the same kind of church, for no other kind would have served. Louis, however, had really liked going to church. There had once even been a mad suggestion that he should become a choir-boy, but the Lieutenant-General had naturally decided⁵¹ that it was not meet for a child of breeding to associate with plebeians⁵² in order to chant the praises of the Almighty⁵³.
 
Louis at his worst had never quite ceased to attend church, though he was under the impression that his religious views had broadened, if not entirely⁵⁴ changed. Beneath the sudden heavy menace of death he discovered that his original views were, after all, the most authentic⁵⁵ and the strongest. And he had much longed for converse⁵⁶ with a clergyman, who would repeat to him the beautiful reassurances⁵⁷ of his infancy⁵⁸. Even late in the afternoon, hours before the supreme⁵⁹ crisis, he would have welcomed a clergyman, for he was already beginning to be afraid. He would have liked a clergyman to drop in by accident; he would have liked the first advances to come from the clergyman.
 
But he could not bring himself to suggest that the rector of St. Luke's, of whose flock he now formed part, should be sent for. He had demanded a lawyer, and that was as near to a clergyman as he could get. He had been balked⁶⁰ of the lawyer. Further on in the evening, when his need was more acute and his mind full of frightful⁶¹ secret apprehensions⁶², he was as far as ever from obtaining a clergyman. And he knew that, though his eternal welfare might somehow depend on the priest, he could never articulate to Rachel the words, "I should like to see a clergyman." It would seem too absurd to ask for a clergyman.... Strangeness of the human heart!
 
It was after Rachel had fallen asleep that the idea of confession⁶³ had occurred to him as a means towards safety in the future life. The example of Julian had inspired him. He had despised Julian; he had patronized Julian; but in his extremity⁶⁴ he had been ready to imitate him. He seemed to conceive that confession before death must be excellent for the soul. At any rate, it prevented one from going down to the tomb with a lie tacit on the lips. He was very ill, very weak, very intimidated⁶⁵. And he was very solitary⁶⁶ and driven in on himself—not so much because Rachel had gone to sleep as because neither Rachel nor anybody else would believe that he was really dying. His spirit was absorbed in the gravest preoccupations that can trouble a man. His need of sympathy and succour was desperate. Thus he had wakened Rachel. At first she had been as sympathetic and consoling as he could desire. She had held his hand and sat on the bed. The momentary⁶⁷ relief was wonderful. And he had been encouraged to confess.
 
He had prodded⁶⁸ himself on to confession by the thought that Rachel must have known of his guilt⁶⁹ all along—otherwise she would never have told that senseless lie about the scullery door bein............