Life had been so full, so rich as it was. That year he had been given a minor post in the government. A minor post only, but her comment was: "I am quite certain now that he will be Prime Minister!" Well, if things had gone differently, it might have been so. He paused here to speculate upon what might have been. Politics was a gamble, he reflected; but the game wasn't over yet. Not at fifty. He cast his eyes rapidly over more pages, full of the little trifles, the insignificant, happy, daily trifles that had made up her life.
He took up another volume and opened it at random. "What a coward I am! I let the chance slip again. But it seemed selfish to bother him with my own affairs, when he has so much to think about. And we so seldom have an evening alone." What was the meaning of that? Oh, here was the explanation — it referred to her work in the East End. "I plucked up courage and talked to Gilbert at last. He was so kind, so good. He made no objection." He remembered that conversation. She had told him that she felt so idle, so useless. She wished to have some work of her own. She wanted to do something — she had blushed so prettily, he remembered, as she said it, sitting in that very chair — to help others. He had bantered her a little. Hadn't she enough to do looking after him, after her home? Still, if it amused her, of course he had no objection. What was it? Some district? Some committee? Only she must promise not to make herself ill. So it seemed that every Wednesday she went to Whitechapel. He remembered how he hated the clothes she wore on those occasions. But she had taken it very seriously, it seemed. The diary was full of references like this: "Saw Mrs. Jones…. She has ten children…. Husband lost his arm in an accident…. Did my best to find a job for Lily." He skipped on. His own name occurred less frequently. His interest slackened. Some of the entries conveyed nothing to him. For example: "Had a heated argument about socialism with B. M." Who was B. M.? He could not fill in the initials; some woman, he supposed, that she had met on one of her committees. "B. M. made a violent attack upon the upper classes…. I walked back after the meeting with B. M. and tried to convince him.
But he is so narrow-minded." So B. M. was a man — no doubt one of those "intellectuals," as they call themselves, who are so violent, as Angela said, and so narrow-minded. She had invited him to come and see her apparently. "B. M. came to dinner. He shook hands with Minnie!"
That note of exclamation gave another twist to his mental picture. B.
M., it seemed, wasn't used to parlourmaids; he had shaken hands with Minnie. Presumably he was one of those tame working men who air their views in ladies' drawing-rooms. Gilbert knew the type, and had no liking for this particular specimen, whoever B. M. might be. Here he was again. "Went with B. M. to the Tower of London…. He said revolution is bound to come… He said we live in a Fool's Paradise."
That was just the kind of thing B. M. would say — Gilbert could hear him. He could also see him quite distinctly — a stubby little man, with a rough beard, red tie, dressed as they always did in tweeds, who had never done an honest day's work in his life. Surely Angela had the sense to see through him? He read on. "B. M. said some very disagreeable things about —." The name was carefully scratched out. "I told him I would not listen to any more abuse of — " Again the name was obliterated. Could it have been his own name? Was that why Angela covered the page so quickly when he came in? The thought added to his growing dislike of B. M. He had had the impertinence to discuss him in this very room. Why had Angela never told him? It was very unlike her to conceal anything; she had been the soul of candour. He turned the pages, picking out every reference to B. M. "B. M. told me the story of his childhood. His mother went out charring…. When I think of it, I can hardly bear to go on living in such luxury…. Three guineas for one hat!" If only she had discussed the matter with him, instead of puzzling her poor little head about questions that were much too difficult for her to understand! He had lent her books. Karl Marx, The Coming Revolution. The initials B. M., B. M., B. M., recurred repeatedly. But why never the full name? There was an informality, an intimacy in the use of initials that was very unlike Angela. Had she called him B. M. to his face? He read on. "B. M. came unexpectedly after dinner. Luckily, I was alone." That was only a year ago.
"Luckily" — why luckily? — "I was alone." Where had he been that night? He checked the date in his engagement book. It had been the night of the Mansion House dinner. And B. M. and Angela had spent the evening alone! He tried to recall that evening. Was she waiting up for him when he came back? Had the room looked just as usual? Were there glasses on the table? Were the chairs drawn close together? He could remember nothing — nothing whatever, nothing except his own speech at the Mansion House dinner. It became more and more inexplicable to him — the whole situation: his wife receiving an unknown man alone.
Perhaps the next volume would explain. Hastily he reached for the last of the diaries — the one she had left unfinished when she died. There, on the very first page, was that cursed fellow again. "Dined alone with B. M…. He became very agitated. He said it was time we understood each other…. I tried to make him listen. But he would not. He threatened that if I did not…" the rest of the page was scored over. She had written "Egypt. Egypt. Egypt," over the whole page. He could not make out a single word; but there could he only one interpretation: the scoundrel had asked her to become his mistress.
Alone in his room! The blood rushed to Gilbert Clandon's face. He turned the pages rapidly. What had been her answer? Initials had ceased. It was simply "he" now. "He came again. I told him I could not come to any decision…. I implored him to leave me." He had forced himself upon her in this very house. But why hadn't she told him? How could she have hesitated for an instant? Then: "I wrote him a letter."
Then pages were left blank. Then there was this: "Now answer to my letter." Then more blank pages; and then this: "He has done what he threatened." After that — what came after that? He turned page after page. All were blank. But there, on the very day before her death, was this entry: "Have I the courage to do it too? " That was the end.
Gilbert Clandon let the hook slide to the floor. He could see her in front of him. She was standing on the kerb in Piccadilly. Her eyes stared; her fists were clenched. Here came the car….
He could not bear it. He must know the truth. He strode to the telephone.
"Miss Miller!" There was silence. Then he heard someone moving in the room.
"Sissy Miller speaking" — her voice at last answered him.
"Who," he thundered, "is B. M.?"
He could hear the cheap clock ticking on her mantelpiece; then a long drawn sigh. Then at last she said:
"He was my brother."
He was her brother; her brother who had killed himself. "Is there," he heard Sissy Miller asking, "anything that I can explain? "
"Nothing!" he cried. "Nothing!"
He had received his legacy. She had told him the truth. She had stepped off the kerb to rejoin her lover. She had stepped off the kerb to escape from him.