“I was in high spirits, but the next moment trembled like a man with
ague. I reached the orchard before my time. She was not there. You know
what it is like to wait? I stood still and listened; I went to the point
whence I could see farthest; I said to myself, 'A watched pot never
boils; if I don't look for her she will come.' I walked up and down with
my eyes on the ground. The sickness of it! A hundred times I took out my
watch.... Perhaps it was fast, perhaps hers was slow—I can't tell you a
thousandth part of my hopes and fears. There was a spring of water, in
one corner. I sat beside it, and thought of the last time I had been
there—and something seemed to burst in me. It was five o'clock before I
lost all hope; there comes a time when you're glad that hope is dead, it
means rest. 'That's over,' you say, 'now I can act.' But what was I to
do? I lay down with my face to the ground; when one's in trouble, it's
the only thing that helps—something to press against and cling to that
can't give way. I lay there for two hours, knowing all the time that
I should play the coward. At seven o'clock I left the orchard and went
towards the inn; I had broken my word, but I felt happy.... I should see
her—and, sir, nothing—nothing seemed to matter beside that. Tor was in
the garden snipping at his roses. He came up, and I could see that he
couldn't look me in the face. 'Where's my wife?' I said. He answered,
'Let's get Lucy.' I ran indoors. Lucy met me with two letters; the
first—my own—unopened; and the second, this:
“'I have left you. You were good to me, but now—it is no use.
“EILIE.'”
“She told me that a boy had brought a letter for my wife the day before,
from a young gentleman in a boat. When Lucy delivered it she asked,
'Who is he, Miss Eilie? What will Mr. Brune say?' My wife looked at her
angrily, but gave her no answer—and all that day she never spoke. In the
evening she was gone, leaving this note on the bed.... Lucy cried as if
her heart would break. I took her by the shoulders and put her from the
room; I couldn't bear the noise. I sat down and tried to think. While
I was sitting there Tor came in with a letter. It was written on the
notepaper of an inn twelve miles up the river: these were the words.
“'Eilie is mine. I am ready to meet you where you like.'”
He went on with a painful evenness of speech. “When I read those words,
I had only one thought—to reach them; I ran down to the river, and chose
out the lightest boat. Just as I was starting, Tor came running. 'You
dropped this letter, sir,' he said. 'Two pair of arms are better than
one.' He came into the boat. I took the sculls and I pulled out into the
stream. I pulled like a madman; and that great man, with his bare
arms crossed, was like a huge, tawny bull sitting there opposite me.
Presently he took my place, and I took the rudder lines. I could see
his chest, covered with hair, heaving up and down, it gave me a sort of
comfort—it meant that we were getting nearer. Then it grew dark, there
was no moon, I could barely see the bank; there's something in the dark
which drives one into oneself. People tell you there comes a moment when
your nature is decided—'saved' or 'lost' as they call it—for good or
evil. That is not true, your self is always with you, and cannot be
altered; but, sir, I believe that in a time of agony one finds out what
are the things one can do, and what are those one cannot. You get to
know yourself, that's all. And so it was with me. Every thought and
memory and passion was so clear and strong! I wanted to kill him. I
wanted to kill myself. But her—no! We are taught that we possess our
wives, body and soul, we are brought up in that faith, we are commanded
to believe it—but when I was face to face with it, those words had no
meaning; that belief, those commands, they were without meaning to me,
they were—vile. Oh yes, I wanted to find comfort in them, I wanted to
hold on to them—but I couldn't. You may force a body; how can you force
a soul? No, no—cowardly! But I wanted to—I wanted to kill him and force
her to come back to me! And then, suddenly, I felt as if I were pressing
right on the most secret nerve of my heart. I seemed to see her face,
white and quivering, as if I'd stamped my heel on it. They say this
world is ruled by force; it may be true—I know I have a weak spot in
me.... I couldn't bear it. At last I Jumped to my feet and shouted out,
'Turn the boat round!' Tor looked up at me as if I had gone mad. And I
had gone mad. I seized the boat-hook and threatened him; I called him
fearful names. 'Sir,' he said, 'I don't take such names from any one!'
'You'll take them from me,' I shouted; 'turn the boat round, you idiot,
you hound, you fish!...' I have a terrible temper, a perfect curse to
me. He seemed amazed, even frightened; he sat down again suddenly and
pulled the boat round. I fell on the seat, and hid my face. I believe
the moon came up; there must have been a mist too, for I was cold as
death. In this life, sir, we cannot hide our faces—but by degrees the
pain of wounds grows less. Some will have it that such blows are mortal;
it is not so. Time is merciful.
“In the early morning I went back to London. I had fever on me—and was
delirious. I dare say I should have killed myself if I had not been
so used to weapons—they and I were too old friends, I suppose—I can't
explain. It was a long while before I was up and about. Dalton nursed
me through it; his great heavy moustache had grown quite white. We never
mentioned her; what was the good? There were things to settle of course,
the lawyer—this was unspeakably distasteful to me. I told him it was
to be as she wished, but the fellow would come to me, with his—there,
I don't want to be unkind. I wished him to say it was my fault, but he
said—I remember his smile now—he said, that was impossible, would be
seen through, talked of collusion—I don't understand these things, and
what's more, I can't bear them, they are—dirty.
“Two years later, when I had come back to London, after the
Russo-Turkish war, I received a letter from her. I have it here.” He
took an old, yellow sheet of paper out of a leathern pocketbook, spread
it in his fingers, and sat staring at it. For some minutes he did not
speak.
“In the autumn of that same year she died in childbirth. He had deserted
her. Fortunately for him, he was killed on the Indian frontier, that
very year. If she had lived she would have been thirty-two next June;
not a great age.... I know I am what they call a crank; doctors will
tell you that you can't be cured of a bad illness, and be the same man
again. If you are bent, to force yourself straight must leave you weak
in another place. I must and will think well of women—everything done,
and everything said against them is a stone on her dead body. Could you
sit, and listen to it?” As though driven by his own question, he rose,
and paced up and down. He came back to the seat at last.
“That, sir, is the reason of my behaviour this afternoon, and again this
evening. You have been so kind, I wanted!—wanted to tell you. She had a
little daughter—Lucy has her now. My friend Dalton is dead; there would
have been no difficulty about money, but, I am sorry to say, that he was
swindled—disgracefully. It fell to me to administer his affairs—he never
knew it, but he died penniless; he had trusted some wretched fellows—had
an idea they would make his fortune. As I very soon found, they had
ruined him. It was impossible to let Lucy—such a dear woman—bear that
burden. I have tried to make provision; but, you see,” he took hold of
my sleeve, “I, too, have not been fortunate; in fact, it's difficult
to save a great deal out of L 190 a year; but the capital is perfectly
safe—and I get L 47, 10s. a quarter, paid on the nail. I have often been
tempted to reinvest at a greater rate of interest, but I've never dared.
Anyway, there are no debts—I've been obliged to make a rule not to buy
what I couldn't pay for on the spot.... Now I am really plaguing you—but
I wanted to tell you—in case--anything should happen to me.” He seemed
to take a sudden scare, stiffened, twisted his moustache, and muttering,
“Your great kindness! Shall never forget!” turned hurriedly away.
He vanished; his footsteps, and the tap of his stick grew fainter and
fainter. They died out. He was gone. Suddenly I got up and hastened
after him. I soon stopped—what was there to say?