As for Philip himself, he was fortunately, as yet, ignorant of the kind intentions of his friends and neighbours, who had been so fond of him a week ago.  He had enough upon his shoulders without that—­for he had spoken no lie when he told Maria Lee that he was crushed by the dreadful and repeated blows that had fallen upon him, blows that had robbed him of everything that made life worth living, and given him in return nothing but an infant who could not inherit, and who was therefore only an incumbrance.

Who is it that says, “After all, let a bad man take what pains he may to push it down, a human soul is an awful, ghostly, unique possession for a bad man to have?” During the time that had elapsed between the death and burial of his father and wife, Philip had become thoroughly acquainted with the truth of this remark.

Do what he would, he could never for a single hour shake himself free from the recollection of his father’s death; whenever he shut his eyes, his uneasy mind continually conjured up the whole scene with uncanny distinctness; the gloomy room, the contorted face of the dying man, the red flicker of the firelight on the wall—­all these things were burnt deep into the tablets of his memory.  More and more did he recognize the fact that, even should he live long enough to bury the events of that hour beneath the debris of many years, the lapse of time would be insufficient to bring forgetfulness, and the recognition brought with it moral helplessness.  He had, too, sufficient religious feeling to make him uneasy as to his future fate, and possessed a certain amount of imagination, which was at this time all directed towards that awful day when he and his dead father must settle their final accounts.  Already, in the quiet nights, he would wake with a start, thinking that the inevitable time had come.  Superstitious fears also would seize him with their clammy fingers, and he would shake and tremble at the fancied step of ghostly feet, and his blood would curdle in his veins as his mind hearkened to voices that were for ever still.

And, worst of all, what had been done, and could never be undone, had been done in vain.  These deadly torments must be endured, whilst the object for which they had been incurred had utterly escaped him.  He had sold himself to the powers of evil for a price, and that price had not been paid.  But the bond was good for all that.

And so he would brood, hour after hour, till he felt himself drawing near to madness.  Sometimes by a strong effort he would succeed in tearing his mind away from the subject, but then its place was instantly filled by a proud form with reproachful eyes, and he would feel that there, too, death had put it out of his power to make atonement.  Of those whom he had wronged Maria Lee alone survived, and she had left him in sorrow, more bitter than any anger.  Truly, Philip Caresfoot was in melancholy case.  Somewhere he had read that the wages of sin is death, but surely what he felt surpassed the bitterness of death.  His evil-doing had not prospered with him.  The snare he had set for his father had fallen back upon himself, and he was a crushed and ruined man.