As he left the train in the early morning and crossed the Square toward his house he was, notwithstanding a half-defiant carriage, assumed to hide the cringing of his heart, probably the most miserable man in Hampton. He sat down upon the bench where he had rested after his first meeting with Berthe and, recalling that meeting, remembered how he had striven to give a jaunty trend to his thoughts, and had tried to persuade himself that the kissing episode was but a venial misstep, having indeed little of dignity, but even less of sin. Behold, now, to what it had led him!—that deed in which he had actually gloried, seeing himself, because of it, somewhat more a man of the world than was suspected, with experiences concerning which honor bound him to secrecy as it did men of experience; wherefore he had despised the blabbers of his college days, who either kissed not at all, yet boasted of such kissing, or, displaying equal ingenuousness and greater meanness, bragged of actual kisses. He recalled all this with real sorrow, not unmingled with contempt for the callow youth who had sat here indulging in boyish fancies, the wickedness whereof was surpassed only by their shallowness. It was then, he thought, that his unconscious yet diabolical arts upon the woman, destined to be his victim, had commenced. Though his present misery was as great as he could bear and his penitence sincere, nevertheless, there was an underlying consciousness, and pride in the fact, of more than ordinary fascinating powers, in respect of women. She had loved him from the moment she had seen him, and had loved him to her own destruction! Though he regarded with horror that which he believed himself to have compassed, yet the underlying complacency was there. All these years she had been faithful to his memory. Alas for her weakness! alas for the fate which had made him, in respect to her, a villain! He truly repented,—was he not bowed to the ground in humiliation and sorrow for his sin? Yet, was he wholly responsible, he who had, in ignorance, exercised seductive powers, possessed in ignorance?

The inner being of this man, of noble outward form, was not cast in heroic mould, such moulds being seldom used in the fashioning of our neighbors; yet he was no unusual product, being the inevitable result of various influences, for most of which he was not responsible. An idolized child, a boy of wondrous promise as of wondrous beauty, a youth completely filling all promises of boyhood, early called to the service of Heaven, and so, somewhat set apart and cherished with a care befitting a sacred vessel, to be guarded from every rude touch lest its perfection be endangered,—thus he had been fitted for the world. Every natural healthy instinct had been bent and distorted by the loving hands of ignorance, while equally natural impulses had been ignored as unwholesome weeds, which would find no place in a nature dedicated and cultivated for Heaven. He had been esteemed as somewhat higher than ordinary humanity, while human vices had been nourished in him so that they bore blossoms so fair to look upon that they were as virtues. His innate vanity had been so fostered that it had become the central product of his moral being, permeating every thought, mingled with every act. His most patent and engaging graces had been developed by this vice. His frankness, his amiability, his generosity, his mental aptitude, were all means for winning the esteem he craved, and had been employed, in fact, to that end. They were real virtues. He was in goodness all he seemed to be. The kindness of heart for which he was praised and loved, even this excellence aided in the nurture of that self-complacency which led him to ascribe the woman's undoing to his witchery, rather than to her willingness.

As he raised his eyes and caught sight of his home, and knew that he must enter the house, the subtle consolation which had formed the undercurrent of his despondency was forgotten, or, perhaps, its utter worthlessness for the moment recognized. The whole horrible load of regret weighed again upon him, crushing his spirit. There was no comfort now in any phase of his reflections. He had gone forth from the home of his innocent boyhood, as of his worthy manhood, unhappy, indeed, but claiming and receiving the respect of all his fellows. Now, he must creep back, so vile a creature that he dreaded to meet the eyes even of his servants.

As to his wife, though he had left her without good-bye, and though there had been estrangement between them, he knew that he must meet her face to face, and while he dreaded the meeting, still he longed for it and longed to throw himself upon his knees before her and confess. As to that which had estranged them, it seemed a trifle to him now. Let her have her will; if therein there was to be punishment for him, was he not willing to do penance all his days? As to those confidences made by Berthe, while he believed them, he believed only what he had been told. As to seriously thinking of actual guilt in connection with Natalie, she was too truly estimated by him, and he too truly innocent, still, to harbor base suspicions. But he knew that she had not loved him, and in the dismal oppression caused by his own misdeeds this conviction created a distinct and sharp pain, and yet it had its own alleviation. He, too, had something to forgive, and did forgive, even now, before forgiveness had been granted him. Yes, he would meet her face to face, and there should be repentance between them and, as each had done wrong, so each would do all that could be done in reparation, and if the sacrifice she had demanded of him be still required, he would make it.

And thus, while Natalie, in the cemetery, had seen the way to reconciliation with her husband, and had recognized that she had wronged him, and in that recognition had found in her heart a greater love for him than she had known before, so he with similar thoughts, though more confusedly and with less honesty, though not consciously dishonest, slowly made his way toward the house. He entered by means of his latchkey, meeting nobody, and went at once to the library. It was still early: doubtless Natalie was in her room. He was not sorry for a respite.

He was faint and felt the need of refreshment. No doubt, the maids were about, so he went toward the bell, then drew back, recognizing in his action his dread of meeting any occupant of the house. Then he remembered that in his valise was a small bottle of champagne. He was not sorry, now, for Berthe's foresight, and in his heart thanked her. He recalled how pleasantly this wine had affected him, how it had given him courage, and how his horrible depression had vanished under its influence. Notwithstanding his resolve to resume his old practice of abstinence in regard to wine, he was glad that he had this chance bottle, for he had never needed courage more than now. He wished he had some food, for he had eaten but little for many hours; the wine would serve until he had the courage to ask for food.

While he was opening his bottle the front-door bell rang. The library, its doorway hung with heavy curtains, faced the entrance to the house. Leonard, peeping between the curtains, saw Mark Claghorn admitted and ushered by the servant into the drawing-room.

The sight of Mark, whom he had supposed in Europe, aroused his anger. He hated Mark as one who had gained a love that should have been his own. Under the circumstances he was not sorry that his presence in the house was unknown. Mark, who was noted as an early riser, had probably ridden over from Stormpoint on some trifling errand, and, soon after Natalie appeared, would doubtless leave the house.

And so he waited, thirstily quaffing the champagne and wishing he had a biscuit. He tried not to think of the visitor in the drawing-room, but found that effort vain, thinking of him, in fact, with fast-rising anger, until he was on the point of seeking the man to force a quarrel on him which should banish the intruder from the house forever.

He was arrested in this intention by hearing Mark emerge from the drawing-room and walk quickly to the front door. Leonard peeped through the curtains and saw his wife, with her arms outspread, fall upon Mark's breast, and heard her cry aloud:

"My darling, my darling, welcome home!" and with upturned face she drew Mark's downward, kissing his lips as she had never kissed the watcher.

Who staggered backward, sinking into a chair, dazed as by a blow.

Her face had been illumined, glowing with happiness. Her dancing eyes, her outspread arms, her lips upturned, her gladness unrestrained, so impatient in her longing that she could not wait for greater privacy than the hall—in these he had seen a woman never seen by him before. This was Mark's welcome home. What was his to be?

Great tears streamed down his face; of wounded vanity, of love and trust betrayed, of growing fury. His moods followed fast one upon another. Now sunk in profounder depths of sorrow than any yet sounded, now raging with frantic lust for vengeance upon the woman and her lover.

Even while chaotic fancies whirled in his brain he could hear the murmur of their talk, ecstatic dalliance which he would interrupt.

Yes, he would disconcert their cooing, cover the pair with humiliation, eject the glib intruder and bring the woman to her knees.

But he could not move. He was chained to his chair. A horrible fluttering of his heart made him gasp for breath, his head fell back, his face and lips were white. The want of food, the nervous depression, the rage and exhaustion, all intensified by the sharp and unaccustomed fillip of the wine, had done their work. At first it was fainting, then came slumber.