It was in that moment probably that he resolved
upon my death, for I was unable to restrain a low, grim laugh. Sir
Robert slept always, even when we paused at stations on the road. At
those times Belleville and I exchanged pretty courtesies. He would
offer me his flask, or I would offer him a cigarette. We both refused
these charming civilities, but our manner was so densely sugar-coated
that there might have been detected by a skilled psychometrist a scent
of honey in the air. And our eyes beamed upon each other with the
sweetest friendliness. Needless to say, whenever the engine whistled
or the train slowed down Miss Ottley's hand left mine. She only spoke
to me once, and that was on the London platform, while Belleville was
assisting her father from the car. "Do not go out ever between three and five!" she muttered behind her
veil, without looking at me. "I shall come as soon as I can. Do not
call on me! Do not reply! Just say good-bye!" "Well--if you'll allow me, I'll say good-bye, Miss Ottley," I announced
in ordinary tones. "You might be good enough to let me know your
opinion of my book at your leisure, for I value your opinion. You will
have an advance copy in a week or two." "Most certainly, Dr. Pinsent. It is kind of you to remember your
promise. Good-bye!" I lifted my hat and left her; nodding to Belleville as I passed. He
looked surprised, also distrustful, but he said something polite. Sir
Robert saw me, but chose to ignore my existence. I walked home to Bruton Street and found Hubbard ensconced before the
fire. The night was chilly enough to warrant one, despite the season. He was staring gloomily into the heart of the glowing coals. I helped myself to a glass of whisky and took an armchair beside him. "I can't stand this. I'll go abroad," he announced at the end of a good
half hour. "What's the matter, Hubbard?" "Oh! I've been there again. I couldn't keep away. She was alone, for a
wonder." "You refer to your wife, I suppose. Well?" He allowed me to finish my cigar before replying, then he said: "I have
no business to tell you, but I shall. She is in love, and I believe
with you." "Nonsense." "I wish it were," he answered dreamily, "but it is not. She has
practically admitted it." "That--she cares for me?" I cried. "No--but for someone. And I am not so great a fool that I cannot
read between the lines, although she thinks so. Her thoughts dwell
constantly on you." "Impossible!" He turned and gazed at me. "It's so, old man, upon my honour." "You are mistaken, Dixon." "I know you are as true as steel," he muttered. "That is why I do not
even feel a wish to thwart the fates. I am nothing but an interloper,
a marplot. I ought to efface myself. When I am strong enough I shall. But I wish you'd be frank with me--Hugh, entirely frank. You think you
despise her now, but you are sure you have no other feeling deep at
heart? Think well before you answer, Hugh!" "Why?" "Because if I were sure that you cared, too, I would find my happiness
in helping. You are worthy of her--and she--as God hears me, is worthy
of the best man living." "Dixon! Dixon!" "Oh! I know this must sound oddly from my lips. But though I've been
a fool, I'm wiser now. I hold a purer, finer faith; a human faith. And it is now my deep belief that the greatest crime of all is the
prevention of the fullest union of predestined mates--and all that
sin entails--the birth of children generated by the fires of lust and
hate upon the copperplate of physical and psychical indifference;
the production of a race prenatally ordained to be degenerates;
the determination of unhappy souls galled into madness by their
chains,--their ultimate destruction." He got suddenly afoot and raised his hands on high. "I tell you, Hugh!" he cried, with eyes afire, "there is no surer way to damnation, no
surer path. We are born into this world for one strong purpose which is
told us by our hearts if we will hear them. And this concerns ourselves
not half so much as our potentialities of helping by their proper use
the unborn spirits placed by Providence at our control and mercy. It
is then for us to choose if we will be servants of the good, to assist
in their perfection, or the servants of the evil to promote their
desolation and to advance the stages of their ruin. No human being has
the right to bring any but a love child into the world. That which is
not a love child is a child of hate. There is no course between. And
because the father of a child of hate is a criminal for whom there is
no punishment conceivable, to a finite mind, acute enough on earth his
expiation of his crime will but begin at death. You laugh at me." "On the contrary," I answered gravely, "I accord with you." "Then you admit my duty. I should stand aside?" "Ay--but first be sure, my friend! You love your wife; she may love
you." "I am sure that she does not. But you? It is time, Hugh, that you
answered me." I stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "I love with all my strength
another woman," I said slowly. "And just as sure I am that I love her
am I that she loves me. Are you answered?" He stared at me, and in the moment that my eyes held his, his face grew
dull and grey. "My poor Helen," he muttered, "I had hoped to help her
to her happiness." "At--any cost?" I demanded. "Yes, yes," he said. "Death?" "I would have welcomed it," he groaned, and turning, he went slowly
from the room. He walked like an old, old man. I had never admired him
so little, nor liked and pitied him so much. Straightway I wrote a
note to Lady Helen and, going out, posted it myself. It contained only
these three words: "It is time." I could trust a woman of her proven
cleverness to understand. Chapter XXII

The Dead Hand


I expected Miss Ottley next afternoon, and Hubbard, as though aware I
wished to be alone, went out soon after three. But she did not come. Hubbard returned an hour after midnight. He kept me awake by tramping
about his room until far into the small hours. Next morning I found the
library filled with corded boxes and Hubbard's man padlocking the last
of them. "Master's gone to France, and I'm to follow," he announced
with an air of suppressed exultation. "He left this letter for you." The letter contained these lines: "I know you at length for the
cunning scamp you are. How you must have laughed at me. But I forgive
you. We shall be away a year, at least. As always, everything I have
is yours. Let us find you here on our return. I cannot write more. My heart is too full. Pinsent, she loves me! D. H." The last three
words were deeply underlined. By the end of that week I had completed
the revision of my book and forwarded the manuscript to Mr. Coen. Afterwards, I was uncomfortably lonely and unoccupied. I waited in
from three to five every afternoon, but no one came. The rest of the
days I spent wandering about the streets nursing the long sickness
of too much thinking. The end of it was, I disobeyed Miss Ottley and
went one afternoon to call on her.