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.”