His speech was frail, and broken with long pauses and with paroxysms:
“I hope I haven’t ruined your lives for you two. But you weren’t very happy when I came along, were you? Sheila was breaking your heart, Bret, just because she couldn’t keep her own from breaking. You were like a man chained to a dead woman. If you had gone on, maybe you would have been less happy than you will be now. Look at poor Dorothy. How long will she stand her unhappiness? My royalties will go to her! They will make her independent of that—But I’ve got no time to be bitter against anybody now.
“I hope you’ll be happy, you two. But happiness isn’t the thing to work for. The thing to work for is work—to do all you can with what you have. I’m a poor, weak, ramshackle sack of bones, but I’ve done what I could—and a little more. J’ai fait mon possible. That’s all God or man can ask. Go on and do your possible, Bret—you in your factory—and Sheila in her factory. I can’t see why your chance for happiness isn’t as good as anybody’s, if you’ll be patient with each other and run home to each other when you can—and—and—now I’ve got to run home, too.”
Then a deep peace soothed him, and them.
CURTAIN
THE END
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.
Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.