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——