"To every coward safety, and afterwards his evil hour."
Sleep, that fickle courtier of our hours of ease, had deserted Hugh.
When the last hour of the last day was over, and the dawn which he had
bound himself in honor not to see found him sitting alone in his room,
where he had sat all night, horror fell upon him at what he had done.
Now that its mire was upon him he saw by how foul, by how dastardly a
path he had escaped.
"To every coward safety, and afterwards his evil hour." Hugh's evil hour
had come. But was he a coward? Men not braver than he have earned the
Victoria Cross, have given up their lives freely for others. Hugh had it
in him to do as well as any man in hot blood, but not in cold. That was
where Lord Newhaven had the advantage of him. He had been overmatched
from the first. The strain without had been greater than the power of
resistance within. As the light grew Hugh tasted of that cup which God
holds to no man's lips--_remorse_. Would the cup of death which he had
pushed aside have been more bitter?
He took up his life like a thief. Was it not stolen? He could not bear
his rooms. He could not bear the crowded streets. He could not bear the
parks. He wandered aimlessly from one to the other, driven out of each
in turn, consumed by the smouldering flame of his self-contempt. Scorn
seemed written on the faces of the passers-by. As the day waned, he
found himself once again for the twentieth time in the park, pacing in
"the dim, persistent rain," which had been falling all day.
But he could not get away from the distant roar of the traffic. He
heard it everywhere, like the Niagara which he had indeed escaped, but
the sound of which would be in his ears till he died. He drew nearer and
nearer to the traffic, and stood still in the rain listening to it
intently. Might one of those thousand wheels be even now bringing his
enemy towards him, to force him to keep his unspoken word. Hugh had not
realized that his worst enemy was he who stood with him in the rain.
The forlorn London trees, black and bare, seemed to listen too, and to
cling closer to their parks and grass, as if they dimly foresaw the
inevitable time coming when they too should toil, and hate, and suffer,
as they saw on all sides those stunted uprooted figures toil and suffer,
which had once been trees like themselves. "We shall come to it," they
seemed to say, shivering in all their branches, as they peered through
the iron rails at the stream of human life, much as man peers at a
passing funeral.
The early night drove Hugh back to the house. He found a note, from a
man who had rooms above him, enclosing a theatre ticket, which at the
last moment he had been prevented using. He instantly clutched at the
idea of escaping from himself for a few hours at least. He hastily
changed his wet clothes, ate the food that had been prepared for him,
and hurried out once more.
The play was "Julius Cæsar," at Her Majesty's. He had seen it several
times, but to-night it appealed to him as it had never done before. He
hardly noticed the other actors. His whole interest centred in the awful
figure of Cassius, splendid in its unswerving deathless passion of a
great hate and a great love. His eyes never left the ruthless figure as
it stood in silence with its unflinching eyes upon its victim. Had not
Lord Newhaven thus watched him, Hugh, ready to strike when the hour
came.
The moment of the murder was approaching. Hugh held his breath. Cassius
knelt with the rest before Cæsar. Hugh saw his hand seek the handle of
his sword, saw the end of the sheath tilt upwards under his robe as the
blade slipped out of it. Then came the sudden outburst of animal
ferocity long held in leash, of stab on stab, the self-recovery, the
cold stare at the dead figure with Cassius's foot upon its breast.
For a moment the scene vanished. Hugh saw again the quiet study with its
electric reading-lamp, the pistols over the mantel-piece, the tiger
glint in Lord Newhaven's eyes. He was like Cassius. He, too, had been
ready to risk life, everything in the prosecution of his hate.
"He shall never stand looking down on my body," said Hugh to himself,
"with his cursed foot upon me." And he realized that if he had been a
worthier antagonist, that also might have been. The play dealt with men.
Cassius and Lord Newhaven were men. But what was he?
The fear of death leading the love of life by the hand took with shame a
lower seat. Hugh saw them at last in their proper places. If he could
have died then he would have died cheerfully, gladly, as he saw Cassius
die by his own hand, counting death the little thing it is. Afterwards,
as he stood in the crowd near the door, where the rain was delaying the
egress, he saw suddenly Lord Newhaven's face watching him. His heart
leaped. "He has come to make me keep my word," he said to himself, the
exaltation of the play still upon him. "I will not avoid him. Let him do
it," and he pressed forward towards him.
Lord Newhaven looked fixedly at him for a moment, and then disappeared.
"He will follow me and stab me in the back," said Hugh. "I will walk
home by the street where the pavement is up, and let him do it."
He walked slowly, steadily on, looking neither to right nor left.
Presently he came to a barrier across a long deserted street, with a red
lamp keeping guard over it. He walked deliberately up it. He had no
fear. In the middle he stopped, and fumbled in his pocket for a
cigarette.
A soft step was coming up behind him.
"It will be quickly over," he said to himself. "Wait. Don't look round."
He stood motionless. His silver cigarette-case dropped from his hand. He
looked at it for a second, forgetting to pick it up. A dirty hand
suddenly pounced upon it, and a miserable ragged figure flew past him up
the street. Hugh stared after it, bewildered, and then looked round. The
street was quite empty. He drew a long breath, and something between
relief and despair took hold of him.
"Then he does not want to, after all. He has not even followed me. Why
was he there? He was waiting for me. What horrible revenge is he
planning against me. Is he laying a second trap for me?"
* * * * *
The following night Hugh read in the evening papers that Lord Newhaven
had been accidently killed on the line. The revulsion of feeling was too
sudden, too overwhelming. He could not bear it. He could not live
through it. He flung himself on his face upon the floor, and sobbed as
if his heart would break.
* * * * *
The cyclone of passion which had swept Hugh into its vortex spent itself
and him, and flung him down at last. How long a time elapsed he never
knew between the moment when he, read the news of the accident and the
moment when shattered, exhausted, disfigured by emotion, he raised
himself to his feet. He opened the window, and the night air laid its
cool mother-touch upon his face and hands. The streets were silent. The
house was silent. He leaned with closed eyes against the window-post.
Time passed by on the other side.
And after a while angels came and ministered to him. Thankfulness came
softly, gently, to take his shaking hand in hers. The awful past was
over. A false step, a momentary giddiness on the part of his enemy, and
the hideous strangling meshes of the past had fallen from him at a
touch, as if they had never wrapped him round. Lord Newhaven was gone
to return no more. The past went with him. Dead men tell no tales. No
one knew of the godless compact between them, and of how he, Hugh, had
failed to keep to it, save they two alone. He and one other. And that
other was dead--was dead.
Hope came next, shyly, silently, still pale from the embrace of her
sister Despair, trimming anew her little lamp, which the laboring breath
of Despair had wellnigh blown out. She held the light before Hugh,
shading it with her veil, for his eyes were dazed with long gazing into
darkness. She turned it faintly upon the future, and he looked where the
light fell. And the light grew.
He had a future once more. He had been given that second chance for
which he had so yearned. His life was his own once more: not the shamed
life in death--worse than death of the last two days--but his own to
take up again, to keep, to enjoy, best of all, to use worthily. No
horrible constraint was upon him to lay it down, or to live in torment
because he still held it. He was free, free to marry Rachel whom he
loved, and who loved him. He saw his life with her. Hope smiled, and
turned up her light. It was too bright. Hugh hid his face in his hands.
And, last of all, dwarfing Hope, came a divine constraining presence who
ever stretches out strong hands to them that fall, who alone sets the
stumbling feet upon the upward path. Repentance came to Hugh at last. In
all this long time she had not come while he was suffering, while
smouldering Remorse had darkened his soul with smoke. But in this quiet
hour she came and stood beside him.
Hugh had in the past leaned heavily on extenuating circumstances. He had
made many excuses for himself. But now he made none. Perhaps, for the
first time in his life, under the pressure of that merciful, that benign
hand, he was sincere with himself. He saw his conduct--that easily
condoned conduct--as it was. Love and Repentance, are not these the
great teachers? Some of us so frame our lives that we never come face
to face with either, or with ourselves. Hugh came to himself at last. He
saw how, whether detected or not, his sin had sapped his manhood, spread
like a leaven of evil through his whole life, laid its hideous touch of
desecration and disillusion even on his love for Rachel. It had
tarnished his mind; his belief in others; his belief in good. These
ideals, these beliefs had been his possession once, his birthright. He
had sold his birthright for red pottage. Until now he had scorned the
red pottage. Now he saw that his sin lay deeper, even in his original
scorn of his birthright, his disbelief in the Divine Spirit who dwells
with man.
Nevertheless his just punishment had been remitted. Hitherto he had
looked solely at that punishment, feeling that it was too great. He had
prayed many times that he might escape it. Now for the first time he
prayed that he might be forgiven.
Repentance took his hands and locked them together.
"God helping me," he said, "I will lead a new life."