Chapter 17

           Thenextdayhedidnotleavethehouse,and,indeed,spentmostofthetimeinhisownroom,sickwithawildterrorofdying,andyetindifferenttolifeitself. Theconsciousnessofbeinghunted,snared,trackeddown,hadbeguntodominatehim. Ifthetapestrydidbuttrembleinthewind,heshook. Thedeadleavesthatwereblownagainsttheleadedpanesseemedtohimlikehisownwastedresolutionsandwildregrets. Whenheclosedhiseyes,hesawagainthesailor’sfacepeeringthroughthemist-stainedglass,andhorrorseemedoncemoretolayitshanduponhisheart. 

           Butperhapsithadbeenonlyhisfancythathadcalledvengeanceoutofthenight,andsetthehideousshapesofpunishmentbeforehim. Actuallifewaschaos,buttherewassomethingterriblylogicalintheimagination. Itwastheimaginationthatsetremorsetodogthefeetofsin. Itwastheimaginationthatmadeeachcrimebearitsmisshapenbrood. Inthecommonworldoffactthewickedwerenotpunished,northegoodrewarded. Successwasgiventothestrong,failurethrustupontheweak. Thatwasall. Besides,hadanystrangerbeenprowlingroundthehousehewouldhavebeenseenbytheservantsorthekeepers. Hadanyfootmarksbeenfoundontheflower-beds,thegardenerswouldhavereportedit. Yes:ithadbeenmerelyfancy. SibylVane’sbrotherhadnotcomebacktokillhim. Hehadsailedawayinhisshiptofounderinsomewintersea. Fromhim,atanyrate,hewassafe. Why,themandidnotknowwhohewas,couldnotknowwhohewas. Themaskofyouthhadsavedhim. 

           Andyetifithadbeenmerelyanillusion,howterribleitwastothinkthatconsciencecouldraisesuchfearfulphantoms,andgivethemvisibleform,andmakethemmovebeforeone!