"As he spoke he placed some money in her hand, and, having finished speaking, he rose and went away. Not once did he hesitate or look back, but held himself erect and walked as a man whose decision is deliberate. She clutched the money tightly, whimpering; but I had no part in her tears. I had no disposition to cry then; nor have I had any since. I understood what that piece of money meant. It was the price of Adrian's freedom from my love. He paid me to go away.
"I remember noticing the fantastic carven stonework of the church outlined against the night sky, while shame and despair devoured me—shame and despair intimate, merciless, unmitigated. Still clutching the piece of money, the woman got up. I do not know anything more about her, what she did, or who she was, or where she went. For a time, as far as I am concerned, the pulse of the world ceased to beat. And then I lay here, at home, in my own room at the Tower House, and heard the rain and wind in the trees just as I hear them to-night.
"When Isherwood brought me my tea, at half-past seven, she expressed concern at my appearance. I told her I had not slept and that I felt tired and faint. She insisted upon sending for Doctor Norbiton. I let her do so. It was matter of indifference to me whether I saw him or not. Nothing can change either facts or the event. But Isherwood has always been kind and faithful to me. I did not want to hurt her by opposing her wishes. Doctor Norbiton sounded my heart. He told both Isherwood and Margaret it was in a weak state; but added that he believed such mischief as exists to be functional rather than organic. He recommended me to take the tabloids, which he gave me for insomnia, sparingly, as their effect upon the heart is depressing. I listened and agreed. Margaret expressed regret at my condition. She offered to see Rossiter for me and spare me the trouble of housekeeping. I let her do so.
"It has rained all day; but I have been fully occupied in going through papers and accounts, and making sure that my own affairs and those of the household are in perfect order. This almost mechanical work is soothing. I have always been fond of accounts. I remain quite calm. Why should I be otherwise? I know the truth, and have nothing left, therefore, either to fear or to hope."
The following evening Joseph Challoner was due to dine at the Tower House. Pleading a return of faintness and disinclination for conversation, Joanna remained up-stairs in the blue sitting-room and retired early to bed. The next entry in her diary reads thus:
"THE TOWER HOUSE, August 30, 190-, 9 P.M.
"I let Isherwood undress me. I asked her for my white pleated négligé, which I found she had sent to the cleaners' during the time my hands were hurt and I had been obliged to give her my keys. I am glad to wear it to-night. Isherwood was very kind and attentive to me. I could almost think she suspected something, but I did what I could to dissipate any suspicion she might entertain. I promised her I would call her if I wanted her during the night; but all that I really needed is quiet. This is perfectly true. I do need quiet, unbroken quiet.
"Still I must try to put down events in their proper order.—And first, I feel it is only just that I should note how much I have thought of papa during these last two very dreadful days. I have felt singularly near to him in spirit and in sympathy. I know that I have rebelled against his methods; and have both thought and spoken harshly of him. I am sorry for this. I see now that, in his position and possessing his authority, I should have acted as he did. He valued wealth as lightly as I do; though he was interested in the acquisition of it. Business to him was an occupation rather than an end in itself. He craved for entire self-expression—as I have craved for it; and it was impossible for him to find such expression in business. In public affairs, economic or social reform, he might have found it; and to the last, I believe, he hoped some opportunity of entire self-expression would present itself. That, I think, was why he disliked the idea of dying. He was ambitious of impressing himself upon the mind of his generation in the manner he inwardly felt himself capable of doing. It hurt and angered him to leave life with his personal equation unrecorded. He knew himself—as I have known myself—to be superior to others both in intellect and in the nature of his aims and ambitions. He despised weakness. He despised what is common, trivial, ignorant. He could not tolerate that those about him should run after cheap pleasures in which the mind has no part.
"This morning, about twelve o'clock, the rain lessened. I ordered the carriage and drove by myself to the West Stourmouth Cemetery. Leaving the carriage at the entrance gates, I walked to his grave. The cemetery is still but partially laid out. Patches of heather remain, making the tombstones and monuments look bare and white. I am glad papa's grave is on the highest ground. Standing by it, I saw, through scuds of driving mist, the Baughurst Woods, sloping to the shore, and beyond them the sea. The loneliness of this growing camp of the dead was sympathetic to me. I am leaving instructions that I am to be buried beside papa's grave, if not in it. I have never been so much of a companion or help to any one as to him. He, at least, wanted me, though he often frightened and wounded me. So I will go back to him in death; and lie beside him in the rain, and snow, and wind, and sunshine out there under the barren gravel of the moor.
"I received Adrian's answer to my letter by the six-o'clock post this evening. I feared giving way to emotion on opening it; but I experienced very little emotion. Of this I am glad. I am glad, too, infinitely glad, that I determined what I would do before I so strangely saw Adrian and spoke with him the night before last. If I had not determined my state of mind would have been far more agonizing. Calmness and self-respect would have been impossible. Margaret was with me in the blue sitting-room when Edwin brought me my letters. I do not know whether she observed that I received one from Adrian. I fancy not. I waited until she had gone before reading it. It proved just such a letter as I might have anticipated, written with every intention of kindness. It exhibits his character in a very agreeable light—affectionate, courteous, penetrated by regret on my account. He does his utmost to spare my feelings and soften the blow he is compelled to deal me. I appreciate all this. He praises my intelligence, and points out to me, very gracefully, the advantages of my education and of my wealth. He points out, too, the endlessly varied interests of life. He admits that he has loved Madame St. Leger for many years; and he reproaches himself deeply with not having spoken to me about his affection for her when he stayed here in May, and when I pressed him to tell me whether he was suffering from any anxiety in which I could be helpful to him.