Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
Tennyson.
It was on a hot thundery July afternoon that Sir Hugh entered Redmond Hall, weary and heated and dusty, and thoroughly ashamed of himself.
There are some men who hate to be reminded of their own shortcomings—who are too proud and impatient to endure self-humiliation, and who would rather go through fire and water than own themselves in the wrong. Sir Hugh was one of these. Despite his moral weakness, he was a Redmond all over, and had a spice of the arrogance that had belonged to them in the old feudal days, when they had ruled their vassals most tyrannically. And especially did he hate to be reminded by word or deed that his conduct had not been faultless; his conscience made him uncomfortable enough, for he was really kind-hearted in spite of his selfishness; so it did not improve matters when Mrs. Heron met him in the hall, and, quite forgetting her usually stately manners, suddenly burst out, while her tearful eyes gave emphasis to her words:
“Oh, Sir Hugh, I am grateful and thankful to see you again, for we thought my lady would have died in her trouble, for, bless her dear heart, she fretted herself cruelly when you left her, and more’s the pity!”
The housekeeper had meant no reproach to her master, but Sir Hugh’s uneasy conscience took alarm.
“Thank you, Mrs. Heron,” he said, with icy politeness, “I am deeply indebted to you for reminding me of my shortcomings. Ellerton, be good enough to tell Lady Redmond’s nurse that I am here, and that I wish to see my wife at once;” and he passed on in a very bad humor indeed, leaving Mrs. Heron thoroughly crest-fallen by her master’s unexpected sarcasm.
Ellerton was an old servant, and he ventured to remonstrate before carrying out this order.
“Will you not get rid of a little of the dust of your journey, Sir Hugh, and have some refreshment before you go up to my lady?”