Chapter IV: February 20th, 1929

At half-past nine last night I was sitting in the study with Bugle with only the fire for light, when I heard the front-door open and someone come in. Now that Jo’s gone, no one but I has a key, so Bugle and I got up and went to the door.

It was Jo.

Before I could speak her arms were round my neck.

Her cheek, her lips were red-hot: her breath coming in spurts.

“Sorry I’m late, my darling, but Daphne’s going away and she simply made me——”

The sentence lost itself in a savage cough.

I watched her sway to the sofa as if I was in a dream. . . .

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.