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。”