How much of that sort of discredit could a man stand and keep his balance?
...

And what would his mother say?
Confused from his own physical suffering, the blow had fallen with a deadened force on nerves already numbed; but his half-stupefied acquiescence had suddenly become a painful recoil when he remembered where the brunt of the disgrace would fall--where the centre of suffering must always be, and the keenest grief concentrated.

Roused, appalled, almost totally unnerved, he stood staring at the letter, beginning to realise what it would mean to his mother.

A passion of remorse and resentment swept him.

She must be spared that! There must be some way--some punishment for his offence that could not strike her through him! It was wicked, it was contemptible, insane, to strike her! What were the governors of the Lenox about--a lot of snivelling hypocrites, pandering to the horrified snobbery at the Patroons! Who were they, anyway, to discipline him! Scarce one in fifty among the members of the two clubs was qualified to sit in judgment on a Siward! But that tempest of passion and mortification passed, too, leaving him standing there, dumb, desperate, staring at the letter crushed in his shaking hand.
He must see somebody, some member of the Lenox, and do something--something! Ferrall! Was that Ferrall's step on the landing?
He sprang to the door and opened it.