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. . . .
I found him at Barcelona, engaged on some Government job. What the job
was I don’t know, but it left him plenty of time—to take two people
about in his great big car. They were French, these two, and pretty
rich. The girl was young and handsome, with a dangerously short upper
lip and masses of fine red hair. When Perowne took them out, she sat in
front with him, her husband and the chauffeur sitting behind. . . . The
husband stuck it until five days ago. Then they left for Valencia, they
said, he and his wife . . . going by road.
That night I took the lady’s name in vain.
I wired from Pampeluna—I had a big car, too—suggesting Perowne should
come. He came. I fancy his vanity was tickled. I may be wrong. But I
think he liked the idea of the husband chuckling to think that he’d
thrown him off the track, while the wife was giving him the tip that
they’d taken another road.
A maid at Pampeluna did the rest. At least, she gave him a message, when
all the rest of the staff denied the very existence of the lady with the
short upper lip and the masses of fine red hair.
The message bade Perowne take the north-east road. This leads into the
mountains and is but little travelled till April is old. He took the
road the next day, and he took it alone. His chauffeur had supped with
me the night before—holding a very short spoon. . . .
I saw him coming when he was miles away, driving like fury along the
elegant road that swept and curled and thrust like some stately serpent
up and up into bleak places, where, even beneath the sunshine, spring
seemed very distant and the monstrous silence of the depths on either
hand turned the trickle of running water into the rush of a sluice.
When he was two miles off, I knocked out my pipe. Then I adjusted my
goggles and entered my car.
I drove slowly to meet him on one of the bends. The corner was blind,
but he cut it—I knew he would. He found me full in his path on my
proper side. He tried to get through, but I squeezed him and crammed him
into the ditch. . . .
I let him talk for a minute, while I moved on and turned my wheels into
a bank. Then I locked the switch and got out of the car.
As I came up he let out at me in French.
“How long have you been driving?”