Chapter 24

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

But why didn't you explain it all to me at the very first?" I
exclaimed, all tremulous. "When you met me at Quebec, I mean--why
didn't you tell me then? Did you and Elsie come there on purpose to
meet me?"

"Yes, we came there to meet you," Jack answered. "But we were afraid
to make ourselves known to you all at once just at first, because,
you see, Una, I more than half suspected then, what I know now to be
the truth, that you were coming out to Canada on purpose to hunt me
up, not as your friend and future husband, but in enmity and
suspicion as your father's murderer. And in any case we were
uncertain which attitude you might adopt towards me. But I see I
must explain a little more even now. I haven't told you yet why I
came at all to Canada."

"Tell me now," I answered. "I must know everything to-day. I can
never rest now till I've heard the whole story."

"Well," Jack went on more calmly, "after the first excitement wore
off in the public mind, there came after a bit a lull of languid
interest; the papers began to forget the supposed facts of the
murder, and to dwell far more upon your own new role as a
pyschological curiosity. They talked much about your strange new
life and its analogies elsewhere. I was anxious to see you, of
course, to satisfy myself of your condition; but the doctors who had
charge of you refused to let you mix for a while with anyone you had
known in your First State; and I now think wisely. It was best you
should recover your general health and faculties by slow degrees,
without being puzzled and distracted by constant upsetting
recollections and suggestions of your past history.

"But for me, of course, at the time, the separation was terrible.
Each morning, I read with feverish interest the reports of your
health, and longed, day after day, to hear of some distinct
improvement. And yet at the same time, I was terrified at every
approach to complete convalescence: I feared that if you got better
at all, you might remember too quick, and that then the sudden rush
of recollection might kill you or upset your reason. But by-and-by,
it became clear to me you could remember nothing of the actual shot
itself. And I saw plainly why. It was the firing of the pistol that
obliterated, as it were, every trace of your past life in your
disorganised brain. And it obliterated ITSELF too. Your new life
began just one moment later, with the Picture of the dead man
stretched before you in his blood on the floor, and a figure in the
background disappearing through the window."

How clever he was, to be sure! I saw in a moment Jack had
interpreted my whole frame of mind correctly and wonderfully.

"Well, I went back to Babbicombe," Jack continued, "and, lest my
heart should break for want of human sympathy, I confided every word
of my terrible story to Elsie. Elsie can trust me; and Elsie
believed me. Gradually, as you began to recover, I realised the
soundness of your doctor's idea that you should be allowed to come
back to yourself by re-education from the very beginning, without
any too early intrusion of reminiscences from your previous life to
confuse and disturb you. But I couldn't go on with my profession,
all the same, while I waited. I couldn't attend as I ought to my
patients' wants and ailments: I was too concentrated upon you: the
strain was too great upon me. So I threw up my practice, came out to
Canada, bought a bit of land, and began farming here, and seeing a
few patients now and again locally, just to fill up my time with. I
felt confident in the end you would recover and remember me. I felt
confident you would come to yourself and marry me. But still, it was
very long work waiting. Every month, Elsie got news indirectly from
Minnie Moore or someone of your state of health; and I intended to
go back and try to see you as soon as ever you were in a condition
to bear the shock of re-living your previous life again.

"Unfortunately, however, the police got hold of YOU before I could
carry my plan into execution. As soon as I heard that, I made up my
mind at once to go home by the first mail and break it all gently to
you. So Elsie and I started for Quebec, meaning to sail by the
Dominion steamer for England. But at the hotel at Quebec we saw the
telegrams announcing that you were then on your way out to Canada.
Well, of course we didn't feel sure whether you came as a friend or
an enemy. We were certain it was to seek me out you were coming to
America; but whether you remembered me still and still loved me, or
whether you'd found out some stray clue to the missing man, and were
anxious to hunt me down as your father's murderer, we hadn't the
slightest conception. So under those circumstances, we thought it
best not to meet you ourselves at the steamer, or to reveal our
identity too soon, for fear of a catastrophe. I knew it would be
better to wait and watch--to gain your confidence, if possible--in
any case, to find out how you were affected on first seeing us and
talking with us.

"Well then, as the time came on for the Sarmatian to arrive, it
began to strike me by degrees that all Quebec was agog with
curiosity to see you. I dared not go down to meet you at the quay
myself; but the Chief Constable of Quebec, Major Tascherel, was an
old friend and fellow-officer of my father's; and when I explained
to him my fears that you might be mobbed by sightseers on your
arrival at the harbour, and told him how afraid I was of the shock
it might give you to meet an old friend unexpectedly at the
steamer's side, he very kindly consented to go down and see you safe
through the Custom House, It was so lucky I knew him. If it hadn't
been for that, you might have been horribly inconvenienced.

"As you may imagine, when we first saw you get into the Pullman car,
both Elsie and I felt our hearts come up into our months with
suspense and anxiety. We'd arranged it all so on purpose, for we
felt sure you were on your way to Palmyra to find us: but when it
came to the actual crisis, we wondered most nervously what effect
the sight of us might have upon your system. But in a moment, I saw
you didn't remember us at all, or only vaguely attached to us some
faint sense of friendliness. That was well, because it enabled us to
gain your confidence easily. As we spoke with you, the sense of
friendly interest deepened. I knew that, all unconsciously to
yourself, you loved me still, and that in a very short time, if only
I could see you and be with you, I might bring all back to you."

Jack paused and looked at me. As he paused, I felt my old self
revive again more completely than ever with a rush.

"Oh, Jack," I cried, "so you HAVE done; so you HAVE brought all back
to me! My Second State's over: I'm the same girl you used to know at
Torquay once more. I remember everything--everything--such a
world--such a lifetime! I feel as if my head would burst with all
the things I remember. I don't know what to do with it. I'm so
tired, so weary."

"Lay it here," Jack said simply.

And I laid it on his shoulder, just as I used to do years ago, and
cried so long in silence, and was ever so much comforted. For I've
admitted all along that I'm only a woman.

There we sat, hand in hand, for many minutes more, saying never
another word, but sympathising silently, till Elsie returned from
Palmyra.

When she burst into the room, she called out lightly as she entered:

"Well, I've got you your lemon, Una, and I do hope--" Then she broke
short suddenly. "Oh, Jack," she cried, faltering, and half guessing
the truth, "what's the meaning of this? Why, Una's been crying. You
bad boy, you've been frightening her. I oughtn't to have left her
ten minutes alone with you!"

Jack rose and held up his hand in warning.

"Don't talk to her at present, Elsie," he said. "You needn't be
afraid. Una's found out everything. She remembers all now. And she
knows how everything happened. And she's borne it so bravely,
without any more shock to her health and strength than was
absolutely inevitable.--Let her sleep if she can. It'll do her so
much good.--But, Elsie, there's one thing I want to say to you both
before I hand her over to you. After all that's happened, I don't
think Una'll want to hear that hateful name of Callingham any more.
It never was really hers, and it never shall be. We'll let bygones
be bygones in every other respect, and not rake up any details of
that hateful story. But she's been Una to us always, and she shall
be Una still. It's a very good name for her: for there's only one of
her. But next week, I propose, she shall be Una Ivor."

I threw myself on his neck, and cried again like a child.

"I accept, Jack," I said, sobbing. "Let it be Ivor, if you will.
Next week, then, I'll be your wife at last, my darling!"