CHAPTER XVIII.

Thenextdayhedidnotleavethehouse,and,indeed,spentmostofthetimeinhisownroom,sickwithawildterrorofdying,andyetindifferenttolifeitself.Theconsciousnessofbeinghunted,snared,trackeddown,hadbeguntodominatehim.Ifthetapestrydidbuttrembleinthewind,heshook.Thedeadleavesthatwereblownagainsttheleadedpanesseemedtohimlikehisownwastedresolutionsandwildregrets.Whenheclosedhiseyes,hesawagainthesailor’sfacepeeringthroughthemist-stainedglass,andhorrorseemedoncemoretolayitshanduponhisheart. Butperhapsithadbeenonlyhisfancythathadcalledvengeanceoutofthenightandsetthehideousshapesofpunishmentbeforehim.Actuallifewaschaos,buttherewassomethingterriblylogicalintheimagination.Itwastheimaginationthatsetremorsetodogthefeetofsin.Itwastheimaginationthatmadeeachcrimebearitsmisshapenbrood.Inthecommonworldoffactthewickedwerenotpunished,northegoodrewarded.Successwasgiventothestrong,failurethrustupontheweak.Thatwasall.Besides,hadanystrangerbeenprowlingroundthehouse,hewouldhavebeenseenbytheservantsorthekeepers.Hadanyfoot-marksbeenfoundontheflower-beds,thegardenerswouldhavereportedit.Yes,ithadbeenmerelyfancy.SibylVane’sbrotherhadnotcomebacktokillhim.Hehadsailedawayinhisshiptofounderinsomewintersea.Fromhim,atanyrate,hewassafe.Why,themandidnotknowwhohewas,couldnotknowwhohewas.Themaskofyouthhadsavedhim. Andyetifithadbeenmerelyanillusion,howterribleitwastothinkthatconsciencecouldraisesuchfearfulphantoms,andgivethemvisibleform,andmakethemmovebeforeone!Whatsortoflifewouldhisbeif,dayandnight,shadowsofhiscrimeweretopeerathimfromsilentcorners,tomockhimfromsecretplaces,towhisperinhisearashesatatthefeast,towakehimwithicyfingersashelayasleep!Asthethoughtcreptthroughhisbrain,hegrewpalewithterror,andtheairseemedtohimtohavebecomesuddenlycolder.Oh!inwhatawildhourofmadnesshehadkilledhisfriend!Howghastlythemerememoryofthescene!Hesawitallagain.Eachhideousdetailcamebacktohimwithaddedhorror.Outoftheblackcaveoftime,terribleandswathedinscarlet,rosetheimageofhissin.WhenLordHenrycameinatsixo’clock,hefoundhimcryingasonewhoseheartwillbreak. Itwasnottillthethirddaythatheventuredtogoout.Therewassomethingintheclear,pine-scentedairofthatwintermorningthatseemedtobringhimbackhisjoyousnessandhisardourforlife.Butitwasnotmerelythephysicalconditionsofenvironmentthathadcausedthechange.Hisownnaturehadrevoltedagainsttheexcessofanguishthathadsoughttomaimandmartheperfectionofitscalm.Withsubtleandfinelywroughttemperamentsitisalwaysso.Theirstrongpassionsmusteitherbruiseorbend.Theyeitherslaytheman,orthemselvesdie.Shallowsorrowsandshallowlovesliveon.Thelovesandsorrowsthataregreataredestroyedbytheirownplenitude.Besides,hehadconvincedhimselfthathehadbeenthevictimofaterror-strickenimagination,andlookedbacknowonhisfearswithsomethingofpityandnotalittleofcontempt. Afterbreakfast,hewalkedwiththeduchessforanhourinthegardenandthendroveacrosstheparktojointheshooting-party.Thecrispfrostlaylikesaltuponthegrass.Theskywasaninvertedcupofbluemetal.Athinfilmoficeborderedtheflat,re