“I see—her, the next night again. It is in the white stone house on the hill. All the windows are open, an’ I can hear her to sing. I not know that song. It begin, ‘Oft in the stilly night’—like that.”
Charley stiffened. It was the song Kathleen sang for him the night they became engaged.
“It is a good voice-that. I see her face, for there is a candle on the piano. I come close and closter to the house. There is big maple-trees—I am well hid. A man is beside her. He lean hover her an’ put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Sing it again, Kat’leen,’ he say. ‘I cannot to get enough.’”
“Stop!” said Charley, in a strained, harsh voice. “Not yet, M’sieu’,” said Portugais. “It is good for you to hear what I say.”
“‘Come, Kat’leen!’ the man say, an’ he blow hout the candle. I hear them walk away, an’ the door shut behin’ them. Then I hear anudder voice—ah, that is a baby—very young baby!”
Charley quickly got to his feet. “Not another word!” he said.
“Yes, yes, but there is one word more, M’sieu’,” said Jo, standing up and facing him firmly. “You must go back. You are not a thief. The woman is yours. You throw your life away. What is the man to you—or the man’s brat of a child? It is all waiting for you. You mus’ go back. You not steal the money, but that Billy—it is that Billy, I know. You can forgive your wife, and take her back, or you can say to both, Go! You can put heverything right and begin again.”
Anger, wild words, seemed about to break from Charley’s lips, but he conquered himself.
The old life had been brought back to him with painful acuteness and vividness. The streets of the town, the people in the street, Billy, the mean scoundrel, who could not leave him alone in the grave of obscurity, Kathleen—Fairing. The voice of the child—with her voice—was in his ears. A child! If he had had a child, perhaps——He stopped short in his thinking, his face all at once flooding with colour. For a moment he stood looking out of the window down towards the village. He could see the post-office like a toy house among toy houses. At last he turned to Jo.
“Never again while I live, speak of this to me: of the past, of going back, or of—of anything else,” he said. “I cannot go back. I am dead and shamed. Let the dust of forgetfulness come and cover the past. I’ve begun life again here, and here I stay, and see it out. I shall work out the problem here.” He dropped a hand on the other’s shoulder. “Jo,” said he, “we are both shipwrecks. Let us see how long we can float.”