It was an acute problem, my decision on which was reached only after long deliberation. It was this: I would keep all my suspicions and theories to myself until I could confide them to the ear of the Counsel on Hugo’s behalf.
In the meantime some relief from the moral stagnation of Wildshott had become apparent with the opening of the day succeeding the inquiry. That deadly lethargy which had followed the first stunning blow was in part shaken off, and the household, though in hushed vein, began to resume its ordinary duties. Sir Calvin himself reappeared, white and drawn, but showing no disposition to suffer commiseration in any form, or any relaxation from his iron discipline. The events of the next few days I will pass over at short length. They yielded some pathos, embraced some preparations, included a visit. I may mention here a decision of the General’s which a little, in one direction, embarrassed my designs. Just or unjust to the man, he would not have Cleghorn back. One could not wonder, perhaps, over his determination; yet I could have preferred for the moment not to lose sight of my suspect. We heard later that the butler, as if anticipating his dismissal, had gone, directly after his release, up to London, where, no doubt, he could be found if wanted. I had to console myself with that reflection. The valet, Louis, we came to learn about the same time, had taken refuge, pending his master’s return—he had got to hear somehow of the Baron’s absence—with an excellent Roman Catholic lady, who had pitied his case and offered him employment. He had no desire, very certainly, to return to a house where he had suffered so much.
Of a visit I was allowed to pay my friend in the prison I do not wish to say a great deal. The interview took place in a room with a grating between us and a warder present. The circumstances were inexpressibly painful, but I think I felt them more than Hugo. He was cheery and optimistic—outspoken too in a way that touched me to the quick.
“I want to tell you everything, Viv.,” he said hurriedly, below his breath; “I want to get it all off my chest. You guessed the truth, of course; but not the whole of it. There was one thing—I’d like you to tell my father, if you will—it makes me out a worse cur than I admitted, but I can’t feel clean till I’ve said it. It began this way. I surprised the girl over some tricky business—God forgive her and me; that’s enough said about it!—and I bargained with her for my silence on terms. I’ll say for myself that I knew already she was fond of me; but it doesn’t excuse my behaving like a damned cad. Anyhow, she fell to it easily enough; and then the fat was in the fire. It blazed up when she discovered—you know. It seemed to turn her mad. She must be made honest—my wife—or she would kill herself, she said. I believe in the end I should have married her, if—Viv., old man, I loved that girl, I loved her God knows with what passion; yet, I tell you, my first emotion on discovering her dead was one of horrible relief. Call me an inhuman beast, if you will. I dare say it’s true, but there it is. I was in such a ghastly hole, and my nerves had gone all to pieces over it. If I had done what she wished, it meant the end of everything for her and me. I knew the old man, and that he would never forgive such an alliance—would ruin and beggar us. I had been on a hellish rack, and was suddenly off it, and the momentary sensation was beyond my own control. Does the admission seem to blacken the case against me? I believe I know you better than to think so. I’m only accounting in a way for my behaviour on the night of the—the——. Why, all the time, at the bottom of my soul, I was crying on my dead darling to come back to me, that I could not live without her. O, Viv.! why is it made so difficult for some men to go straight?”
He paused a moment, his head leaned down on his hands, which held on to the bars. I did not speak. His allusion to the “tricky business” he had surprised the girl over was haunting my mind. How did it consort with my latent suspicion of a mystery somewhere?
“Hugh,” I said presently, “you won’t tell me what she was doing when you first——”
“No, I won’t,” he interrupted me bluntly. “Think what she became to me, and allow me a little decency. I’ve told you all that’s necessary—more than I had ever intended to tell you when I promised you my confidence. I’m sorry for that, Viv. God knows if I had spoken to you at first it might have altered things. But I couldn’t make up my mind while a chance existed—or I thought it did. She put me out of my last conceit that day, swearing she was going to expose the whole story. It was all true that I said. She may have been waiting there on the chance of my passing: I swear I didn’t know it. We had our few words, and I gave my promise and passed on. The evidence about the shot was a black lie. I can say no more than that.”
I give his words, and leave them at that, making no comment and drawing no conclusions. If his admission as to his first emotion on learning of his release might repel some people, I can only plead that one man’s psychology, like one man’s meat, may be impossible of digestion by another. I found it, I confess, hard to stomach myself; but then I had never been a spoilt and wayward only son.
We talked some little time longer on another matter, which had indeed been the main object of my visit—the nature of, and Counsel for, his defence. I had undertaken, at Sir Calvin’s instance, to go to London and interview his lawyers on the subject, thus sparing the father the bitter trial of a preliminary explanation, and I told Hugo of my intention.
“What a good fellow you are, Viv.,” he said fondly. “I don’t deserve that you should take all this trouble about me.”