CHAPTER XVII.
I am not going to apologize for our hero, nor am I going to gloss over his faults with any specious special pleading. No man is either wholly good or wholly bad; certainly Jack was not wholly good; he was human, very human, and blessed, or cursed, with a hot, passionate blood, which made him more liable to trip than most men. But, at the same time, this in justice must be said of him, that he very rarely sinned in this way.
Tonight his blood was at full heat; the love which had sprung up like a tongue of flame in his heart burned and maddened him, and to this newly-born love was added the disappointment and bewilderment of Una’s sudden disappearance. Add, too, that he had been overstrained and upset, and—well, there are the excuses and apologies, after all.
Somewhere about two o’clock, when the club was full with men who had dropped in from theater and ball-room, and amidst the popping of corks and click of pool balls, a certain feeling came over poor Jack that he had taken quite as much, and more, of the sparkling juice than was good for him; and with that consciousness came the resolution to go home.
The game was just over, and without a word he put up his cue, motioned to a footman to bring him his hat, and, scarcely noticed in the crowd and bustle, slowly descended the broad and indeed magnificent staircase for which and its palatial hall the club was famous.
He descended very slowly, with his hand on the balustrade, and having reached the bottom, he filled a glass with water from the crystal filter that stood on a side table in the porter’s box, and sallied out.
The night air struck upon his hot brow in a cool and welcome fashion, and Jack stood for a moment or two, fighting with the hazy and stupefying effects of the night’s work.
“I won’t go home yet,” he muttered. “Len will be cut up; he always is. He’s as bad as a father—almost as bad as a mother-in-law. Well, I didn’t touch the cards, anyhow. And if it had not been for those two idiots, Ark and Dally, I shouldn’t have got so far into the champagne. How bright the stars shine—an unaccountable number of them tonight.” Poor Jack! “Never saw such a quantity! No, I won’t go home yet. I’ll walk it off if I have to walk till tomorrow morning. Where am I? Ah! where is she? Thank Heaven, she isn’t near me now! I’m glad she’s gone; I’m glad I shall never see her any more. I’m not fit to see her; not worthy to touch her hand. But I did touch it,” and, with a kind of wonder at his audacity, he stretched out his hand and stared at it under the gas-lamp.
Then he walked on perfectly indifferent to the direction, perfectly indifferent to the weariness which was gradually—no, rapidly—coming on him.