THE WAGES OF SIN
Such a hot night as it was—not a breath
of wind, and the moon, full orbed, dull and yellow,
hangs like a lamp in the dark blue sky. Low down
on the horizon are great masses of rain clouds, ragged
and angry-looking, and the whole firmament seems to
weigh down on the still earth, where everything is
burnt and parched, the foliage of the trees hanging
limp and heavily, and the grass, yellow and sere,
mingling with the hot, white dust of the roads.
Absolute stillness everywhere down here by the Yarra
Yarra, not even the river making a noise as it sweeps
swiftly down on its winding course between its low
mud banks. No bark of a dog or human voice breaks
the stillness; not even the sighing of the wind through
the trees. And throughout all this unearthly
silence a nervous vitality predominates, for the air
is full of electricity, and the subtle force is permeating
the whole scene. A long trail of silver light
lies on the dark surface of the river rolling along,
and here and there the current swirls into sombre,
cruel-looking pools—or froths, and foams
in lines of dirty white around the trunks of spectral-looking
gum trees, which stretch out their white, scarred
branches over the waters.
Just a little way below the bridge which leads to
the Botanical Gardens, on the near side of the river,
stands an old, dilapidated bathing-house, with its
long row of dressing-rooms, doorless and damp-looking.
A broad, irregular wooden platform is in front of
these, and slopes gradually down to the bank, from
whence narrow, crazy-looking steps, stretching the
whole length of the platform, go down beneath the
sullen waters. And all this covered with black
mould and green slime, with whole armies of spiders
weaving grey, dusky webs in odd corners, and a broken-down
fence on the left half buried in bush rank grass—an
evil-looking place even in the daytime, and ten times
more evil-looking and uncanny under the light of the
moon, which fills it with vague shadows. The rough,
slimy platform is deserted, and nothing is heard but
the squeaking and scampering of the water-rats, and
every now and then the gurgling of the river as it
races past, as if it was laughing quietly in a ghastly
manner over the victims it had drowned.
Suddenly a black shadow comes gliding along the narrow
path by the river bank, and pauses a moment at the
entrance to the platform. Then it listens for
a few minutes, and again hurries down to the crazy-looking
steps. The black shadow standing there, like the
genius of solitude, is a woman, and she has apparently
come to add herself to the list of the cruel-looking
river’s victims. Standing there, with one
hand on the rough rail, and staring with fascinated
eyes on the dull muddy water, she does not hear a step
behind her. The shadow of a man, who has apparently
followed her, glides from behind the bathing-shed,
and stealing down to the woman on the verge of the
