Part 11

Why I was there does not matter, but I was leaning back in a chair, just as I am leaning now, regarding the ugliest man I have ever seen. And he was regarding me with beady eyes. The room was filthy and bare and frightfully cold. And I was soaked to the skin. One naked electric lamp hung from the ceiling, shedding a harsh light. I was smoking a filthy cigar and from time to time I spat upon the boards. When I spoke, I spoke in vile Spanish, helping myself out with Russian words. I tried to speak the Russian very well. To be frank, I was very uneasy. I was keeping a certain appointment—an appointment with the ugly man. I had arrived early, an hour too soon. The appointment had been arranged for a quarter to ten. My early arrival hadn’t mattered at all. In fact, he was quite nice about it—as nice as he was capable of being, this ugly man. And everything had gone very well. I gave him my news, and he gave me his. His, I may say, was the more valuable. I was extremely glad of it. I did not say so, of course. But I was—extremely glad. And now, having stayed with him nearly an hour, I was inclined to be gone. It was really rather important that I should bid him good-bye, because the appointment I had kept had been made for somebody else. And, as I had kept it without advising them, in the ordinary course of events they would keep it, too. Indeed, unless they were late, they would knock twice on the door at a quarter to ten. Possibly they might be early. . . . But one thing was certain. That was that, whenever they did arrive and they and the ugly man found out that a total stranger had been receiving his valuable news, they would both be most annoyed. . . . The trouble was that my host didn’t mean me to go. . . .

I owe my life to the fact that my hearing is good—at any rate, better than that of my ugly friend.

I heard the step on the landing before he did.

So I broke the electric lamp, hit the ugly man on the nose with a bottle of wine, sang out in infamous Russian “Come in,” adding a vocative which will send any Russian white to the lips, opened the door quietly, and when the other had entered, which he did with the rush of a bull, faded away, as they say, and left them to it.

That was a week ago.

And now once more I am leaning back in a chair, regarding my _vis-à-vis_. I am in London now. The room is warm and pleasant, and its walls are lined with books. Here and there hangs an etching. The windows are heavily curtained, and there is a fire of logs in the grate. The light is soft and grateful and filters through rose-coloured silk. The floor is of parquet, on which are spread Persian rugs. And I am in dress-clothes, dry and smoking a pipe. And my mind is at ease.

And, instead of the ugly man, I am regarding, I think, the loveliest woman I ever saw. She’s wearing a flowered silk frock, and her arms lie like marble along the arms of her chair. Her knees are crossed, and the flames are lighting the sheen of a satin slipper and the pale silk stocking above. Her sweet chin is down on her chest, and her great grey eyes are looking upon my face. And when I look up a light comes into the eyes and a smile comes to play about the beautiful mouth. . . .

And as I wrote those last words she did a thing the ugly man never did and never will do—to me. She blew me a kiss.

I’m sorry I hit him so hard. He deserved it, I know. He deserved to be sawn in two. Still, he did give me a cigar. And, perhaps, if ever he’d known the love of a lady—if anyone ever had looked and smiled on him as sweetheart Jo is looking and smiling on me, he wouldn’t have been so vile or kept such doubtful company.

III March 3rd, 1928

I am dazed . . . stunned . . . I keep thinking I am asleep and that any minute I shall wake and find it is a dream. I have picked at and felt the letter a score of times to see if it was real. I repeat, I am stunned. My brain is staggering, making fumbling efforts to grasp the frightful truth, getting hold of it—and then, because the truth sears it as an iron sears the flesh, dropping it and clutching fantasy with a wild, desperate clutch. . . . And fantasy grins and shakes it off and thrusts it back upon the scorching truth. . . .

_Oh, Richard, I don’t know how to write. You’ve been so wonderful to me, and now—I’m letting you down. I can’t help it, Richard. It’s something stronger than me. If only I could have you both. But I can’t. I’ve got to choose. And I must go to Berwick—Berwick Perowne. I’ve tried not to—indeed, I have. But now I can’t fight any more. . . ._

_Try and forget me, dear. I’m not fit to be remembered. Try and forget the waster you treated so well. And don’t think I’m ungrateful. Strange as it sounds, I’m not. I’m so ashamed, Richard, so terribly, bitterly ashamed, that I can hardly lift my head. But Berwick. . . . There’s something, Richard, you and I never knew. I know it now. I’ve found it in Berwick Perowne. And I pray the time will come when you’ll find it, dear, in someone better than me. And then, I think, you’ll understand._

_Good-bye, Richard. I’m leaving a bit of me behind—a bit of my heart._

_Jo._

_I am so thankful Bugle will never know._

There. I have copied it out, word for blinding word. Some of the writing is blurred, but it is beautifully plain and easy to read. I remember the first note she wrote me—how pleased I was to see what a good hand she had . . . nothing bizarre, just simple, downright, strong. Nothing is slurred—nothing.

I perceive I am trying to gain time—to put off recording the truth. I never did that before, never shrank. If I had to report a failure, I always began with the worst. ‘I regret I have failed to secure . . .’ I don’t know why. I think it seemed easier that way. Certainly, putting it off makes it no easier. More difficult, I think.

Jo has left me.

I think I’ll give that sentence a line to itself. Incidentally, I can’t imagine why I’m writing this down. I don’t write things down as a rule—not these sort of things. I suppose I am writing it down because my brain is plunging like a terrified horse and I am hoping to calm it by showing it exactly what it is up against, and so to be able to coax it under this frightful archway and into—into the hell beyond. I suppose, poor brute, it doesn’t like the look of hell, and that’s why it shies and jibs as if it had seen a ghost.

My good fool, you have seen no ghost, but a perfectly plain, crisp fact—the fact that Jo has gone. Those are her gloves on the table: they still smell of her perfume. If you look at the finger-tips, you will see the faint outline of her beautiful nails. And that is her photograph, there, in the silver frame. But the original has gone . . . leaving behind this letter and—other things. Me, for instance. . . .

For God’s sake let’s get down to facts—to see if there isn’t some loophole, some flicker of hope.

I had to go to Scotland two days ago. I went by night. I promised Jo I’ld be back to-night without fail. We dined without dressing that evening, and Jo seemed rather quiet. I thought it was because I was going away. And—God forgive a fool—I tried to cheer her up. I said that when I was back we’d go down to Bond Street and ask the price of that ring. And Jo put her head in my lap and burst into tears. . . . Of course, I see now. At the time I thought . . . I kissed her good-bye and went. At twenty to seven to-night I was at King’s Cross, and I got the ring with about a minute to spare. That’s it—in the box on the mantelpiece. Then I drove home. As I let myself in, Bugle and Mason appeared. As the latter was taking my coat—

“Where’s her ladyship?” said I.

“Her ladyship’s out, sir,” said Mason. “I think she’s been called out of Town.”

I stared at the fellow blankly.

“‘Called out of Town’?” said I.

“I—I believe so, sir. But she left a note, on your table, sir. I expect that’ll say . . .”

I hurried into the study, wondering what on earth . . .

I see by my watch that that was four hours ago—four hours. And I am thirty-six and as hard as iron. In the ordinary course of things I shall live to at least sixty-five—another twenty-nine years. How many hours is that?

Well, there are the facts. And here is the letter she left. And here am I. I am the latest instance of that most common unfortunate—a man who has lost his wife.

Will nothing make me realize it? I write these things down—these ghastly, frightening facts. I say them over aloud—without result. They are ugly strings of words, but that is all. I know that any second I shall hear her key in the lock. And Bugle knows it, too. He is lying couched by the door, with his head between his paws. He has lain like that for three hours . . . waiting . . . waiting. . . . And he is losing his labour: because, though Jo has gone out, she will never come in . . . never. . . .

I think I am beginning to comprehend the truth. The sight of that little white dog lying there by the door seems to have—to have emphasized something . . . rammed home . . . something. I know. I know what it is. I realize his folly in lying there. I see that he is a fool—because he is waiting for something which never will come to pass. I don’t lie there and wait, because I know better. And I know better because I can read . . . read Jo’s letter . . . which says . . . that—she—is—not—coming—back . . . not—coming—back . . .

My beautiful, darling wife is not coming back any more.

That light step in the hall, that eager voice, that quick flutter in the doorway—are silent for ever. Bugle and I will never hear them again. For the last time Jo has leaned over my shoulder, sat by my side at meat, put her sweet arms about me and kissed my lips. She had a way, I remember, of holding her little hands—when she was specially interested, sharing some venture of mine. “Yes, Richard? Yes?” she’ld cry, with her precious lips parted and a light in her blessed grey eyes that made me feel heroic and turned my twopenny tale into an exploit. It was always like that. Always her fresh, panting spirit lifted me up. Whatever the road, her footsteps made it shine. I’m not a dancer, but I could dance with Jo.

And now—finish . . . _finish_.

‘Finish.’ The word stares at me with a queer, crooked look. I never thought of it before, but what a funny-looking word it is. It looks as though it ought to have two n’s. ‘Finish.’ Never mind. The point is that several things are over. My dancing days, for instance. And the light in Jo’s grey eyes. And the little way she had of—_My God!_ What shall I do? How shall I live and move? I’m like a man in the dark in a dangerous place. I don’t know which way to turn. I’m left . . . left. Everything I did was with Jo, or for Jo, or because of Jo. I moved round her, as planets move round their sun. And now my sun’s gone . . . my sun . . . my glorious sun. . . .

I must pull myself together. I’ve done it before. I mustn’t gibber and crouch. I must stand up and look Fate in the eyes. I’ve done that before, too. And she shrank back, as she shall shrink back now.

Jo, my wife, has gone to another man. What of it? I shall be lonely, of course. The little house’ll seem strange, I shall go more to the Club, as I used to do—before I was married. I shall have to order the meals and keep the servants more or less up to the mark. And the evenings will seem a bit long. And when I go—to Scotland, there won’t be any occasion to hurry back. And that—that’s about all.

I think I’ll keep her things just as they are. I mustn’t get maudlin, but I think that I can do that. Just keep them out and about. It’ll seem more natural. And after a while they can gradually be put away . . . after a while. . . .

And now I must go to bed.

I must go to ‘The Office’ to-morrow and, before I go, I must get out a short report. I meant to have done it to-night, but it’s too late now.

She was so exquisite, Jo was . . . so beautiful, gay, sweet . . . so proud to all the world, so tender to me . . . I’ld ’ve said I was too old for her, only she lifted me up and made me a child.

Berwick Perowne. I hardly know the man, except by name. I’ve only met him twice. Once that night at the Meurices’ and once again at the Ritz. I wonder where——

I must go to bed. I must let old Bugle out and go to bed. The great thing is not to think. If Jo were here, I should——

I must go to—_God! My God! I can’t_. . . .

I think I shall sleep here to-night. There’s nothing the matter with the Chesterfield, and I can get some rugs from the hall.

And I don’t think I shall go to ‘The Office’ to-morrow. If I do, they’re bound to act. Whereas, if I hold my hand for another day, S. will have had his money and cut his own throat. And, instead of a bad ten minutes, he’ll be broken on the wheel. After all, why shouldn’t he be broken? Others are.

IV February 20th, 1929

At half-past nine last night I was sitting in the study with Bugle with only the fire for light, when I heard the front-door open and someone come in. Now that Jo’s gone, no one but I has a key, so Bugle and I got up and went to the door.

It was Jo.

Before I could speak her arms were round my neck.

Her cheek, her lips were red-hot: her breath coming in spurts.

“Sorry I’m late, my darling, but Daphne’s going away and she simply made me——”

The sentence lost itself in a savage cough.

I watched her sway to the sofa as if I was in a dream. . . .

Then I closed the door and switched on the lights.

Something was wrong, of course.

Jo was seriously ill: her skin was burning like fire. Besides, she was talking nonsense. At least . . . For one thing only, I knew that Daphne Pleydell was in the South of France.

Bugle, poor fellow, was almost out of his mind. He was all over Jo, scrambling and whining and pawing and licking her face. For an instant only Jo held him up in her arms. Her sleeves fell back, and I saw how wasted they were. Then—

“You’re getting heavy,” she laughed, and the poor thin arms gave way and Bugle was in her lap.

Sitting there, flushed, on the sofa, Jo talked and coughed and talked, while Bugle kept whimpering with pleasure and I stood watching and noting and thinking what I must do.

She was wet, very wet, sopping—I could smell the reek of cloth—and very, very shabby. I knew the dress she was wearing—a blue coat and skirt. We chose it together at Bradley’s . . . ages ago. Her little hat was a ruin, and her toes were thrusting out of the wreck of a shoe. Her gloves were awful. One tress of her lovely hair was half-way down, and her face was pinched and peaked with two splashes of dusky red about her cheekbones.

I rang for Mason and told him to send a maid to warm my bed and light a fire in the room: after that, to summon a doctor. Then I picked up Jo, still talking, and carried her up the stairs. . . .

All that I did she suffered, just as one suffers the barber to cut one’s hair. She took no notice at all of anything, except that now and again she caught my cheek to hers. But she coughed and chattered—nonsense, without a break.

By the time the doctor was there, I’d got her out of the bath and into bed.

He said that she had pneumonia and sent for nurses and drugs.

By eleven o’clock the women had taken over, and all that treatment can do was being done. . . .

Till a quarter past seven this morning I hardly left her side.

At half-past eleven the medicine took some effect, and from then for nearly an hour she never spoke. Then she started again—not chattering any longer, but speaking sterner stuff. The scene had changed.

She talked in a low voice, off and on, right through the night. The cough interfered and her breathing troubled her sorely, but she would talk.

And this, pieced fairly together, is what she said.

“What will I do? I’ll tell you. I’ll go back to my husband. Perhaps he’ll turn me down; perhaps he won’t. But, whichever he does, he’ll be kind to me, Berwick Perowne. He’ld never kick a woman when she was down. I imagine I was bewitched when I turned to you. . . . You ‘willed’ me, you say? Well, I don’t quite know what that means, but I don’t see why you should laugh. It’s not very generous, considering that you won—while I lost all I had. It broke my heart to leave Richard. You know it did. The first thing I said, when I saw you that awful evening, was that I couldn’t go. And you—you begged and argued until you’d made me late—too late to get back and get my letter before he came. . . . Yes, I know. Oh, you acted well. I never dreamed you were doing it on purpose. I never would have, if you hadn’t told me so. . . . Why do you laugh so, Berwick? It’s so—so unkind. . . . ‘Can’t go back’? ‘_Can’t_’? What do you mean? It shows you don’t know Richard. I tell you . . . What? Well, what if I did? I shouldn’t have told you, of course. It was a secret thing. Richard told me, because I was his wife. I don’t know what he’ld say if he knew that I’d told you, but—why do you laugh like that? I haven’t said anything funny. It’s very serious. I don’t think you realize how serious it is. If you repeated that secret—if you were to tell anyone that Richard had left for Scotland _and never gone there_, that he’d been at Chatham nearly the whole of the time, that he’d only left for Scotland because he knew he was watched and he wanted to make certain people believe he was out of the way—if you were to mention _that_, why, don’t you see you’ld be doing a frightful thing? You’ld be betraying Richard and ‘The Office,’ too: while, as for me, you’ld be stamping me as a traitress in Richard’s eyes. He thinks ill of me, of course. I’ve done him an awful wrong. But, short of absolute proof, he’ld _know_ that I never was that . . . not treacherous. . . . I’ve got so little left. I’ve chucked so much away. But what I’ve still got I treasure—oh, more than life, far more . . . a little shred of honour, very shabby and worn, but clean. . . . And you see, if you talked, you’ld be tearing that shred away. It’ld come to Richard’s ears in twenty-four hours. He knows everything. He’s got to. And, as I was the only soul in all the world he told, he’ld know it was me. So you see how terribly important it is that you shouldn’t breathe a—— Why do you smile like that? What have I said? Can’t you see how . . . You can? Then why do you laugh? . . . ‘Because I’ve put it so well’? What do you mean? Put what so well? . . . ‘Your case’? It isn’t your case. It’s mine. I don’t understand. I said I’ld go back to Richard, and so I will. For all the wrong I’ve done him, he’ll still be kind. He’ld never jeer at a woman because she cried. And he never struck a woman in all his life. . . . ‘Can’t go back’? Why? What do you mean? . . . ‘I’ve told you myself—just now’? ‘_Told_ you’? I don’t understand. How have I told you I can’t go back to Richard? . . . _My God!_ You wouldn’t! You couldn’t do such a thing. Only a fiend . . . You know I shouldn’t have told you; but you—you pressed me so hard. And that was between you and me. You can’t use an indiscretion to force my hand. You can say you’ll tell people this or tell people that, but you can’t give away a secret that wasn’t mine to tell. . . . ‘Can’? Well, ‘won’t,’ then. You won’t do a thing like that! Think what it means to Richard and means to me. Think . . . You _will_ . . . if—I—go—back? You—_will_? Give Richard away . . . and ‘The Office’ . . . tear up my shred of honour . . . blacken me in Richard’s eyes . . . ? _Oh—my—God_ . . . All right. . . . Yes, I’m beaten. . . . I—I give you best. . . . You’ve won. You’ve won again. . . . I see, I understand. I see that I—I can’t go back. . . . Yes, I see why you laughed. . . . Yes, I suppose it was. . . . I do indeed, Berwick. I do, I do. . . . It was peculiarly humorous—my failure to perceive that I was stating your case. . . . No, don’t make me say that. . . . I’ld—I’ld rather not. It sounds so hideous, so—— Oh, don’t, Berwick! You’re hurting! _A-ah!_ All right. Let me go. I’ll say it. ‘Damning my chance of withdrawal out of my own pretty mouth.’ . . . Yes, I do see. I’ve said so. I see that I—can’t—go—back. . . .”

One more extract I’ll give.

“I’m very sorry, Berwick. I think it’s a little cold. . . . No, I promise I won’t. You shan’t know there’s anything wrong. I think if I wear my fur. . . . All right. I won’t wear it. I don’t mind a bit—really. . . . You know I won’t let you down. I shall be all right to-mor—to-night. I’m very strong. . . . Oh, I just felt shivery. . . . No, I promise I won’t. . . . I know you hate anything sick. I know you do. I didn’t think when I shivered. I won’t again. . . . I know, but I won’t to-night. I didn’t know you heard me. . . . ‘Why’? Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t sleep very well, and I suppose I felt like crying. Women do—sometimes. But I won’t cry to-night. . . . I’m very sorry, Berwick. I promise I won’t to-night. . . .”

And again one more.

“Only two hundred and fifty! Couldn’t you give me more? It’s a very good fur—worth two or three thousand francs. I don’t expect that, of course, but—two hundred and fifty’s not enough. I mean, I need four or five . . . I’m afraid I’ve nothing else. I’ld let you have this umbrella, only it’s raining so. Yes, it’s a tortoise-shell top. . . . Couldn’t you make it four hundred, or even five? You see, my ticket’s expensive and. . . . Five hundred with the umbrella? All right. I must let it go. . . . Five hundred. Thanks very much. . . .”

It was almost six o’clock when the change took place.

Jo stopped talking and began to fight. Of course, she hadn’t a chance: but she fought for an hour, like the Great Heart she always was. Again and again she rallied: time after time she tore Death’s grip away. And I knelt by her side, while the nurses moved to and fro, ministering, whispering words of encouragement, like seconds plying their principal between the rounds.

As it was striking seven, Jo opened her great grey eyes.

For a moment they wandered over and round the room. Then they fell upon my face.

“I got here, then,” she said gently. “I am so awfully glad. I wanted to tell you I loved you and—and other things. . . . Our dream was broken, I know. I broke it, of course. I never knew why. I think that man had some power—I don’t know what. Never mind. I broke our dream. But I’ld like you to know, my darling, it’s the only dream I’ve had. . . . And I’ve kept the broken pieces as one keeps a sacred thing. I’ve worshipped—reverenced them. They’ve been my only star. There isn’t a flinder missing: they’re just as they were that day—sparkling and gay and perfect. . . . Only, they’re pieces, Richard—broken bits and pieces of what was once our dream. . . . Such as they are, I give them back to you. You gave me the dream, and I broke it. But I’ve kept the pieces clean, and—here they are.”

“I see no pieces, my sweet. You’ve given me back my dream.”

“In pieces, Richard. I broke it.”

“And now you’ve mended it, darling. You’ve given me back . . . our dream.”

The old wonderful light flung into those peerless eyes. The old exquisite smile came playing into her face.

“Oh, Richard,” she whispered, as though I had made her a present she never had dared expect.

Then she closed her eyes, but the smile never left her face. And presently, with my cheek against hers, she fell asleep.

And that is all, except that I am going to kill Berwick Perowne.

V March 11th, 1929

‘The Office’ gave me two months’ leave—‘for the purpose of attending to private affairs.’ That was on February 25th. Upon the following day I disappeared: and forty-eight hours later I was in touch with Perowne. He had no idea, of course. But I was in touch . . . waiting. . . .