For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one!
--RUDYARD KIPLING.
When Hugh awoke the morning after Lady Newhaven's party the day was
already far advanced. A hot day had succeeded to a hot night. For a few
seconds he lay like one emerging from the influence of morphia, who
feels his racked body still painlessly afloat on a sea of rest, but is
conscious that it is drifting back to the bitter shores of pain, and who
stirs neither hand nor foot for fear of hastening the touch of the
encircling, aching sands on which he is so soon to be cast in agony once
more.
His mind cleared a little. Rachel's grave face stood out against a dark
background--a background darker surely than that of the summer night. He
remembered with self-contempt the extravagant emotion which she had
aroused in him.
"Absurd," Hugh said to himself, with the distrust of all sudden springs
of pure emotion which those who have misused them rarely escape. And
then another remembrance, which only a sleeping-draught had kept at bay,
darted upon him like a panther on its prey.
He had drawn the short lighter.
He started violently, and then fell back trembling.
"Oh, my God!" he said, involuntarily.
He lay still, telling himself that this dreadful nightmare would pass,
would fade in the light of common day.
His servant came in noiselessly with a cup of coffee and a little sheaf
of letters.
He pretended to be asleep; but when the man had gone he put out his
shaking hand for the coffee and drank it.
The mist before his mind gradually lifted. Gradually, too, the horror on
his face whitened to despair, as a twilight meadow whitens beneath the
evening frost. He had drawn the short lighter. Nothing in heaven or
earth could alter that fact.
He did not stop to wonder how Lord Newhaven had become aware of his own
dishonor, or at the strange weapon with which he had avenged himself. He
went over every detail of his encounter with him in the study. His hand
had been forced. He had been thrust into a vile position. He ought to
have refused to draw. He did not agree to draw. Nevertheless, he had
drawn. And Hugh knew that, if it had to be done again, he should again
have been compelled to draw by the iron will before which his was as
straw. He could not have met the scorn of those terrible half-closed
eyes if he had refused.
"There was no help for it," said Hugh, half aloud. And yet to die by his
own hand within five months! It was incredible. It was preposterous.
"I never agreed to it," he said, passionately.
_Nevertheless, he had drawn_. The remembrance ever returned to lay its
cold hand upon his heart, and with it came the grim conviction that if
Lord Newhaven had drawn the short lighter he would have carried out the
agreement to the letter. Whether it was extravagant, unchristian,
whatever might have been truly said of that unholy compact, Lord
Newhaven would have stood by it.
"I suppose I must stand by it, too," said Hugh to himself, the cold
sweat breaking out on his forehead. "I suppose I am bound in honor to
stand by it, too."
He suffered his mind to regard the alternative.
To wrong a man as deeply as he had wronged Lord Newhaven; to tacitly
accept. That was where his mistake had been. Another man, that
mahogany-faced fellow with the colonial accent, would have refused to
draw, and would have knocked Lord Newhaven down and half killed him, or
would have been knocked down and half killed by him. But to tacitly
accept a means by which the injured man risked his life to avenge his
honor, and then afterwards to shirk the fate which a perfectly even
chance had thrown upon him instead of on his antagonist! It was too
mean, too despicable. Hugh's pale cheek burned.
"I am bound," he said slowly to himself over and over again. There was
no way of escape.
Yesterday evening, with some intuition of coming peril, he had said, "I
will get out." The way of retreat had been open behind him. Now, by one
slight movement, he was cut off from it forever.
"I can't get out," said the starling, the feathers on its breast worn
away with beating against the bars.
"I can't get out," said Hugh, coming for the first time in contact with
the bars which he was to know so well--the bars of the prison that he
had made with his own hands.
He looked into the future with blank eyes. He had no future now. He
stared vacantly in front of him like a man who looks through his window
at the wide expanse of meadow and waving wood and distant hill which has
met his eye every morning of his life and finds it--gone. It was
incredible. He turned giddy. His reeling mind, shrinking back from the
abyss, struck against a fixed point, and, clutching it, came violently
to a stand-still.
_His mother!_
His mother was a widow and he was her only son. If he died by his own
hand it would break her heart. Hugh groaned, and thrust the thought from
him. It was too sharp. He could not suffer it.
His sin, not worse than that of many another man, had found him out. He
had done wrong. He admitted it, but this monstrous judgment on him was
out of all proportion to his offence. And, like some malignant
infectious disease, retribution would fall, not on him alone, but on
those nearest him, on his innocent mother and sister. It was unjust,
unjust, unjust!
A very bitter look came into his face. Hugh had never so far hated any
one, but now something very like hatred welled up in his heart against
Lady Newhaven. She had lured him to his destruction. She had tempted
him. This was undoubtedly true, though not probably the view which her
guardian angel would take of the matter.
Among the letters which the servant had brought him he suddenly
recognized that the topmost was in Lady Newhaven's handwriting. Anger
and repulsion seized him. No doubt it was the first of a series. "Why
was he so altered? What had she done to offend him?" etc., etc. He knew
the contents beforehand, or thought he knew them. He got up
deliberately, threw the unopened note into the empty fireplace, and put
a match to it. He watched it burn.
It was his first overt act of rebellion against her yoke, the first step
along the nearest of the many well-worn paths that a man takes at random
to leave a woman. It did not occur to him that Lady Newhaven might have
written to him about his encounter with her husband. He knew Lord
Newhaven well enough to be absolutely certain that he would mention the
subject to no living creature, least of all to his wife.
"Neither will I," he said to himself; "and as for her, I will break with
her from this day forward."
The little pink notes with the dashing, twirly handwriting persisted for
a week or two and then ceased.
* * * * *
Hugh was a man of many social engagements. His first impulse, when later
in the day he remembered them, was to throw them all up and leave
London. But Lord Newhaven would hear of his departure, and would smile.
He decided to remain and to go on as if nothing had happened. When the
evening came he dressed with his usual care, verified the hour of his
engagement, and went out to dine with the Loftuses.