Then he looked her steadily in the face, and replied:
"Greta, it is well said that the most miserable man in all the world is he who feels remorse before he does the wrong. I was—I am—that man. I did what I did knowing well that I should repent it—ay, to the last hour of my life. But I was driven to it—I had no power to resist it—it mastered me then—it would master me now."
The finger-tips of Greta's right hand were pressed close against her cheek. Hugh Ritson took a step nearer.
"Greta," he said, and his voice fell to a broken whisper, "there are some men to whom love is a passing breath, a gentle gale that beats on the face and sports in the hair, and then is gone. To me it is a wound, a deep, corrosive, inward wound that yearns and burns."
Greta shuddered; it was as if his words stung her. Then with an impatient gesture she turned again toward the door, saying:
"This is the death-hour of your child, and, Heaven pardon you, it seems to be the death-hour of your brother's hopes too!" She faced about. "Do you think of him?" she added, lifting her voice. "When you see this man in his place, wasting his substance and mine, do you ever think of him where he is?"
Her voice trembled and broke. There was a moment's silence. She had turned her head aside, and he heard the low sound of sobs.
"Yes, I think of him," he answered, slowly. "At night, in the sleepless hours, I do think of him where he is; and I think of him as a happy man. Yes, a happy man! What if he wears a convict's dress?—his soul is yoked to no deadening burden. As for me—well, look at me!"
He smiled grimly.
"I have heard everything," said Greta; "you have sown the wind, and you are reaping the whirlwind."