“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.”