Then he began again.
And so it went on till our leave became due.
'Before we came to stay here I begged and prayed him to be careful.
I didn't want any of you to know what sort of a man I had married.
All the time he was in England he was all right and before we sailed I warned him.
He'd grown to be very fond of Joan, and very proud of her, and she was devoted to him.
She always liked him better than she liked me.
I asked him if he wanted to have his child grow up, knowing that he was a drunkard, and I found out that at last I'd got a hold on him.
The thought terrified him.
I told him that I wouldn't allow it, and if he ever let Joan see him drunk I'd take her away from him at once.
Do you know, he grew quite pale when I said it.
I fell on my knees that night and thanked God, because I'd found a way of saving my husband.
'He told me that if I would stand by him he would have another try.
We made up our minds to fight the thing together. And he tried so hard.
When he felt as though he must drink he came to me.
You know he was inclined to be rather pompous; with me he was so humble, he was like a child; he depended on me.
Perhaps he didn't love me when he married me, but he loved me then, me and Joan.
I'd hated him, because of the humiliation, because when he was drunk and tried to be dignified and impressive he was loathsome; but now I got a strange feeling in my heart.
It wasn't love, but it was a queer, shy tenderness.
He was something more than my husband, he was like a child that I'd carried under my heart for long and weary months.
He was so proud of me and, you know, I was proud too.
His long speeches didn't irritate me any more, and I only thought his stately ways rather funny and charming.
At last we won.
For two years he never touched a drop. He lost his craving entirely.
He was even able to joke about it.
'Mr Simpson had left us then and we had another young man called Francis.
'"I'm a reformed drunkard, you know, Francis," Harold said to him once.
"If it hadn't been for my wife I'd have been sacked long ago.
I've got the best wife in the world, Francis."
'You don't know what it meant to me to hear him say that.
I felt that all I'd gone through was worth while.
I was so happy.'
She was silent.
She thought of the broad, yellow and turbid river on whose banks she had lived so long.
The egrets, white and gleaming in the tremulous sunset, flew down the stream in a flock, flew low and swift, and scattered.
They were like a ripple of snowy notes, sweet and pure and spring-like, which an unseen hand drew forth, a divine arpeggio, from an unseen harp.
They fluttered along between the green banks, wrapped in the shadows of evening, like the happy thoughts of a contented mind.
'Then Joan fell ill.
For three weeks we were very anxious.
There was no doctor nearer than Kuala Solor and we had to put up with the treatment of a native dispenser.
When she grew well again I took her down to the mouth of the river in order to give her a breath of sea air.
We stayed there a week.
It was the first time I had been separated from Harold since I went away to have Joan.
There was a fishing village, on piles, not far from us, but really we were quite alone.
I thought a great deal about Harold, so tenderly, and all at once I knew that I loved him.
I was so glad when the prahu came to fetch us back, because I wanted to tell him.
I thought it would mean a good deal to him.
I can't tell you how happy I was.
As we rowed up-stream the headman told me that Mr Francis had had to go up-country to arrest a woman who had murdered her husband.
He had been gone a couple of days.