Then I saw she looked at me strangely. She was listening.
“He’s been gone ages,” she said, and she went with little light steps
to the door, opened it, and crossed the passage into his room.
I waited. I listened too, now. I couldn’t have borne to miss a word.
She had left the door open. I stole across the room and looked after
her. Dick’s door was open, too. But—there wasn’t a word to miss.
You know I had the mad idea that they were kissing in that quiet room—a
long comfortable kiss. One of those kisses that not only puts one’s
grief to bed, but nurses it and warms it and tucks it up and keeps it
fast enfolded until it is sleeping sound. Ah! how good that is.
It was over at last. I heard some one move and tip-toed away.
It was Mouse. She came back. She felt her way into the room carrying
the letter for me. But it wasn’t in an envelope; it was just a sheet of
paper and she held it by the corner as though it was still wet.
Her head was bent so low—so tucked in her furry collar that I hadn’t a
notion—until she let the paper fall and almost fell herself on to the
floor by the side of the bed, leaned her cheek against it, flung out
her hands as though the last of her poor little weapons was gone and
now she let herself be carried away, washed out into the deep water.
Flash! went my mind. Dick has shot himself, and then a succession of
flashes while I rushed in, saw the body, head unharmed, small blue hole
over temple, roused hotel, arranged funeral, attended funeral, closed
cab, new morning coat. . . .
I stooped down and picked up the paper and would you believe it—so
ingrained is my Parisian sense of _comme il faut_—I murmured “pardon”
before I read it.
“MOUSE, MY LITTLE MOUSE,
It’s no good. It’s impossible. I can’t see it through. Oh, I do love
you. I do love you. Mouse, but I can’t hurt her. People have been
hurting her all her life. I simply dare not give her this final blow.
You see, though she’s stronger than both of us, she’s so frail and
proud. It would kill her—kill her, Mouse. And, oh God, I can’t kill my
mother! Not even for you. Not even for us. You do see that—don’t you.
It all seemed so possible when we talked and planned, but the very
moment the train started it was all over. I felt her drag me back to
her—calling. I can hear her now as I write. And she’s alone and she
doesn’t know. A man would have to be a devil to tell her and I’m not a
devil, Mouse. She mustn’t know. Oh, Mouse, somewhere, somewhere in you
don’t you agree? It’s all so unspeakably awful that I don’t know if I
want to go or not. Do I? Or is Mother just dragging me? I don’t know.
My head is too tired. Mouse, Mouse—what will you do? But I can’t think
of that, either. I dare not. I’d break down. And I must not break down.
All I’ve got to do is—just to tell you this and go. I couldn’t have
gone off without telling you. You’d have been frightened. And you must
not be frightened. You won’t—will you? I can’t bear—but no more of
that. And don’t write. I should not have the courage to answer your
letters and the sight of your spidery handwriting——
Forgive me. Don’t love me any more. Yes. Love me. Love me. Dick.”
What do you think of that? Wasn’t that a rare find? My relief at his
not having shot himself was mixed with a wonderful sense of elation. I
was even—more than even with my “that’s very curious and interesting”
Englishman. . . .
She wept so strangely. With her eyes shut, with her face quite calm
except for the quivering eyelids. The tears pearled down her cheeks and
she let them fall.
But feeling my glance upon her she opened her eyes and saw me holding
the letter.
“You’ve read it?”
Her voice was quite calm, but it was not her voice any more. It was
like the voice you might imagine coming out of a tiny, cold sea-shell
swept high and dry at last by the salt tide. . . .