Three hours after Harding and Mérat had left Berkeley Square, Owen
let himself in with his latch-key. He was very pale and very weary,
and his boots and trousers were covered with mud, for he had been
splashing through wet streets, caring very little where he went. At
first he had gone in the direction of the river, thinking to rouse
up Monsignor, and to tell him what he thought of him, perhaps to
give him a good thrashing; but the madness of his anger began to die
long before reaching the river. In the middle of St. James's Park the
hopelessness of any effort on his part to restrain Evelyn became
clear to him suddenly, and he uttered a cry, walking on again, and
on again, not caring whither he walked, splashing on through the
wet, knowing well that nothing could be done, that the inevitable
had happened.
"It would have been better if she had died," he often said; "it would
have been much better if she had died, for then I should be free,
and she would be free. Now neither is free."
There were times when he did not think at all, when his mind was
away; and, after a long absence of thought, the memory of how he had
lost her for ever would strike him, and then it seemed as if he
could walk no longer, but would like to lie down and die. All the
same, he had to get home, and the sooner he got home the better, for
there was whisky on the table, and that would dull his memory; and,
tottering along the area railings, he thought of the whisky,
understanding the drunkard for the first time and his temptations.
"Anything to forget the agony of living!"
Three or four days afterwards he wrote to her from Riversdale.
Something had to be written, though it was not very clear that
anything could be gained by writing, only he felt he must write just
to wish her goodbye, to show that he was not angry, for he would
like her to know that he loved her always; so he wrote:
"For the last four days I have been hoping to get a letter from you
saying you had changed your mind, and that what was required to
restore you to health was not a long residence in a convent, but the
marriage ceremony. This morning, when my valet told me there were no
letters, I turned aside in bed to weep, and I think I must have lain
crying for hours, thinking how I had lost my friend, the girl whom I
met in Dulwich, whom I took to Paris, the singer whose art I had
watched over. It was a long time before I could get out of bed and
dress myself, and during breakfast tears came into my eyes; it was
provoking, for my servant was looking at me. You know how long he
has been with me, so, yielding to the temptation to tell somebody, I
told him; I had to speak to somebody, and I think he was sorry for
me, and for you. But he is a well-bred servant, and said very
little, thinking it better to leave the room on the first
opportunity.
"Merat, who brought your letter, told me you said I would understand
why it was necessary for you to go to a convent for rest. Well, in a
way, I do understand, and, in a way, I am glad you are going, for at
all events your decision puts an end to the strife that has been
going on between us now for the last three years. It was first
difficult for me to believe, but I have become reconciled to the
belief that you will never be happy except in a chaste life. I
daresay it would be easy for me, for Ulick, or for some other man
whom you might take a fancy to, to cause you to put your idea behind
you for a time. Your senses are strong, and they overpower you. You
were, on more than one occasion, nearly yielding to me, but if you
had yielded it would have only resulted in another crisis, so I am
glad you did not. It is no pleasure to make love to a woman who
thinks it wrong to allow you to make love to her, and, could I get
you as a mistress, strange as it will seem to you, upon my word,
Evelyn, I don't think I would accept you. I have been through too
much. Of course, if I could get back the old Evelyn, that would be
different, but I am very much afraid she is dead or overpowered;
another Evelyn has been born in you, and it overpowers the old. An
idea has come into your mind, you must obey it, or your life would be
misery. Yes, I understand, and I am glad you are going to the
convent, for I would not see you wretched. When I say I understand,
I only mean that I acquiesce--I shall never cease to wonder how such
a strange idea has come into your mind; but there is no use arguing
that point, we have argued it often enough, God knows! I cannot go
to London to bid you goodbye. Goodbyes are hateful to me. I never go
to trains to see people off, nor down to piers to wave handkerchiefs,
nor do I go to funerals. Those who indulge their grief do so because
their grief is not very deep. I cannot go to London to bid you
goodbye unless you promise to see me in the convent. Worse than a
death-bed goodbye would be the goodbye I should bid you, and it,
too, would be for eternity. But say I can go to see you in the
convent, and I will come to London to see you.
"Yours,
"OWEN."
* * * * *
"MY DEAR OWEN,--You have written me a beautiful letter. Not one word
of it would I have unwritten, and it is a very great grief to me
that I cannot write you a letter which would please you as much as
your letter pleases me. No woman, since the world began, has had
such a lover as I have had, and yet I am putting him aside. What a
strange fatality! Yet I cannot do otherwise. But there is
consolation for me in the thought that you understand; had it been
otherwise, it would have been difficult for me to bear it. You know
I am not acting selfishly, but because I cannot do otherwise. I have
been through a great deal, Owen, more, perhaps, even than you can
imagine. That night! But we must not speak of it, we must not speak
of it! Rest is required, avoidance of all agitation--that is what
the doctor says, and it agitates me to write this letter. But it must
be done. To see you, to say goodbye to you, would be an agitation
which neither of us could bear, we should both burst into tears; and
for you to come to see me in the convent would be another agitation
which must be avoided. The Prioress would not allow me to see you
alone, if she allowed me to see you at all. No, Owen, don't come to
see me either in London or in the convent. Leave me to work out my
destiny as best I can. In three or four months perhaps I shall have
recovered. Until then,
"Yours ever,
"EVELYN."