gratitude that lost itself in the wish—that even he drew back with a shudder from formulating in so many words, but which lived dominant in his consciousness—that Varge's sentence had been—death. That would have been the end of it then. There would be no further cause to fear—it would have meant safety, absolute safety, beyond the chance, the possibility, that someday, in some way, the truth would become known. The very fact that, once found guilty, Varge's sentence should have been any other than that customary one, the full penalty of the law, was like a dread finger-post that pointed with grim, premonitory foreboding to the future.
But the case was closed, it was at an end, the law had been satisfied, it was over, it was done, it was ended—relief would come upon him again. But supposing Varge should weaken!—a clutch at his heart, and hot fear would have him in its grip.
At times, he argued pitiful, specious justification to himself. He had never asked Varge to do what he had done; Varge had brought that on himself; all he had asked Varge to do was to run away—just to run away. Poor, miserable cavil, of as little avail as its worth!—Varge loomed up ever before him. What was he to do? What attitude was he to adopt toward Varge? He dared not ignore him.
The crime itself was swallowed up in the all-possessing, craven selfishness for self-preservation—it lived as a black, hideous phantom behind him, it is true, but it lived chiefly in a sort of ghastly proxy—lived because it was that from whence came the haunting dread and fear of the present—and the future.
