“Has the poor chap been arrested?” he asked at length.
Monimé shook her head. “No,” she said, “he is in the infirmary at Oxford. They hardly expected him to live yesterday, after all the strain of making his confession to us and then to the police.” It was his heart, it seemed, that had given out, a fact at which Jim was not surprised, for when he had met him on that memorable day it was evident that he was very ill.
“Poor old Smiley!” he murmured. “He did it for my sake.”
Monimé’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Jim,” she said. “I’m so cross with you. To think that you never let me know you were a great poet. You said you only scribbled doggerel. When I read this book of your poems I cried my eyes out, with pride and temper and love and fear. Didn’t you realize you were writing things that would live?”
“Good Lord, no!” he answered. “I thought you’d think them awful rot.”
The order from the Home Secretary for Jim’s release was not long delayed, and soon after midday he was a free man once more, enjoying a bath and a change of clothes at the hotel where his wife was staying. Here, when his toilet was complete, Mrs. Darling came to see him, and he was surprised to observe the affectionate relationship which seemed to exist between her and Monimé.
“Jim, my dear,” she said, when the somewhat difficult greetings were exchanged. “I am a wicked old woman to have brought such unhappiness upon you; but you will know what I felt about my Dolly’s cruel end.” She passed her plump hand over her eyes. “I can’t yet bear to think of it.”
“Yes, I know,” he answered. “But you might have realized that I would not have done such a thing.”
“I see that now,” she said. “This dear girl has explained you to me, so that I see you as clear as crystal. She has pointed out that you will neither let anybody interfere with your life nor will you interfere with theirs. You just live and let live. I hadn’t quite understood that, but I see it now, and your poems, too, have helped me to understand. Isn’t it true that if you once remove understanding from life you get every kind of complication! It is our business as women to make a study of the workings of men’s minds; but in this case I made a miserable hash of it.... Oh dear, oh dear!” she muttered, and suddenly, sitting down heavily upon a chair, she wept loudly, rocking her fat little body to and fro.
Jim was not able to remain long to comfort her. He had determined to catch an afternoon express to Oxford to try to see the dying Smiley-face before the end; and he had arranged to return by the late evening train, so that he and Monimé might go down next morning to join their little son on the south coast.