“Thank God, thank God,” she cried, “I haven’t got a child!”
Three days are sufficient for a sensation to become ancient history in London. This truth, like most others, is tame and unobtrusive and therefore apt to be disregarded by the still bloodshot vision of the hero of the sensation. The man in the street had forgotten Hugh, but Hugh overrated his memory and studiously kept out of his way. The West End knew him not. What time he did not remain restless in his flat, he walked or bicycled for miles into the country, filling his lungs with the free, sweet spring air and drowning anxieties in the intoxication of motion and freedom.
He had not yet recovered his mental balance, rudely upset by the extraordinary termination of the trial. He knew not whether to call himself arrant knave or blatant fool; a sorry Don Quixote, degraded at the instant of self-plumage; or a poor marionette, with limbs jerked ludicrously by destiny. He had faced death for a contemptuous sentiment of personal honour, in connection with a woman he despised; life had been purchased for him at the cost of the honour of the one woman in the world for whom he would have gladly died a thousand deaths. How did his honour stand? Grotesquely tragic, under any aspect.
An interview with Irene and Gerard would perhaps restore some kind of equilibrium. But hitherto that had been denied. Twice Irene had written a brief “not yet.” Delicacy commanded scrupulous obedience. But the truer and still untainted fountains of his heart welled out towards those two whose magnificent devotion transcended all power of gratitude. And an exquisite sadness of irony was superadded. Would the jury have convicted him, after Gardiner’s handling of the evidence? Cold reason returned an assured negative. But this, those two should never know. Meanwhile he hungered for the sight of Irene.
A friend visited him on the third morning after the trial; Cahusac, a rosy, gold-spectacled man who held a high position on one of the great dailies. Hugh was preparing to ride forth on his quest of the intoxication of budding lanes.
“I must get Holloway out of my blood,” he explained, welcoming his friend. “I think of nothing but God’s air and sunshine. But what brings you from your bed at this hour?”
“Selfishness. I come begging favours.”
“I am the last one to confer them.”
“What are your plans?” asked Cahusac, throwing himself into a seat.