That would do capitally, and set his mind completely at rest upon the matter. There was only one little flaw in the plan, and that was a vision of the pale face of the girl he had deserted, and which would rise before him, becoming plainer and plainer as the night fell. There is good as well as evil in the lives of all of us, and this was a good moment in the life of Godfrey Harland. There was a time when he had loved his young wife--with a selfish and worthless affection, it is true, but still the best his nature was capable of conceiving; and his conscience raked up the remembrance of this affection, now, with his own misdeeds. Again and again did the thought of Iris come into his head, until he felt almost remorseful. He tried to drive the unwelcome memory away. He left his position and paced the deck with rapid steps, but his deserted wife seemed to walk beside him. He lit a cheroot and nearly choked himself with its strong fumes; still some one seemed to whisper in his ear that he was committing a crime,--that he was a liar--a coward--everything that was base and cruel,--and that if Iris died of starvation during his absence, or sold her honour in exchange for bread, he would be worse--the murderer of both her body and her soul! And then the same voice seemed to tell him, as if by inspiration, that he would never return to England,--that some catastrophe would befall the ship that carried him,--she would be blown up by the powder, or lost at sea, and he was leaving his wife and his creditors behind him--_for ever_. The thought made his cheeks grow ghastly pale. It was a warning--a prophecy! Why should he not save himself from its fulfilment? There was still time to do so. It was nearly dark; he could just make out the green light at the end of Southend Pier. The tide was low. Why not drop overboard and swim? The distance was not a mile, and he was an excellent swimmer. But no. He would be seen and picked up, and treated on board as if he were a lunatic. The Vansittarts would not know what to make of his conduct, and he might lose all the influence he had gained over them. The game was too risky. It would certainly not succeed. And if it did, what would he go back to? Poverty, tears, coldness, and certain arrest. Pshaw! what a fool he was. What had he been thinking of? His good angel flew away, and a spirit of a very different type took its place, and Godfrey Harland was himself again. The soft moment had passed, and it left him harder than before.