Page:Restless Earth.djvu/11
His heart was sick as he continued to read the letter itself.
“. . . now I know the fight is hopeless. I don’t know what has become of my sense of duty, my sense of decency, my sense of the fitness of things. My love for Pat makes me hate myself; it makes me unjust; it makes me believe that you and I were never really happy; it makes me lie to myself. I wallow in the mire and I like it, God help me!
Try to forget me, Grace. I am not worthy of remembrance. I am a weakling. Try not to hate me. Think of me as one dead, upon whom love, pity, jealousy and hate are alike wasted. Teach Joan to forget me—she will forget me so much more easily than I shall forget her. You will both find happiness somewhere. I know it.
Any legal steps I can take for your comfort shall be taken. Anything I can do to secure your freedom shall be done—if you so desire.
There is nothing left to say but
Good-bye.
Jimmy.”
He glanced through the postscript and tore it off with a fierce gesture upon the edge of the table. For a second he contemplated re-writing the letter, then he folded it into its envelope quickly, knowing that he had not the courage.
The letter should catch Grace at the Masonic Hotel, Napier. He addressed it so, and, as a precaution, added: ‘Please forward. In case of non-delivery return to J. Harley, Plover Street, New Plymouth.’
The thought that the Dead Letter Office might open it made him shudder.
He looked out of the window and saw the head of Mrs. Percival Quesne Langham thrust above the tecoma hedge which concealed the back of the bungalow on the opposite side of the gully. The lady was