Chapter 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.”

I stared at the fellow blankly.

“‘Called out of Town’?” said I.

“I—I believe so, sir. But she left a note, on your table, sir. I expect that’ll say . . .”

I hurried into the study, wondering what on earth . . .

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——

I must go to—_God! My God! I can’t_. . . .

I think I shall sleep here to-night. There’s nothing the matter with the Chesterfield, and I can get some rugs from the hall.

And I don’t think I shall go to ‘The Office’ to-morrow. If I do, they’re bound to act. Whereas, if I hold my hand for another day, S. will have had his money and cut his own throat. And, instead of a bad ten minutes, he’ll be broken on the wheel. After all, why shouldn’t he be broken? Others are.