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LET me think where we were. Oh, yes . . . that conversation took
place on the 4th of August, 1913. I remember saying to her that,
on that day, exactly nine years before, I had made their
acquaintance, so that it had seemed quite appropriate and like a
birthday speech to utter my little testimonial to my friend Edward.
I could quite confidently say that, though we four had been about
together in all sorts of places, for all that length of time, I had not,
for my part, one single complaint to make of either of them. And I
added, that that was an unusual record for people who had been so
much together. You are not to imagine that it was only at
Nauheim that we met. That would not have suited Florence.
I find, on looking at my diaries, that on the 4th of September,
1904, Edward accompanied Florence and myself to Paris, where
we put him up till the twenty-first of that month. He made another
short visit to us in December of that year--the first year of our
acquaintance. It must have been during this visit that he knocked
Mr Jimmy's teeth down his throat. I daresay Florence had asked
him to come over for that purpose. In 1905 he was in Paris three
times--once with Leonora, who wanted some frocks. In 1906 we
spent the best part of six weeks together at Mentone, and Edward
stayed with us in Paris on his way back to London. That was how
it went.
The fact was that in Florence the poor wretch had got hold of a
Tartar, compared with whom Leonora was a sucking kid. He must
have had a hell of a time. Leonora wanted to keep him for--what
shall I say--for the good of her church, as it were, to show that
Catholic women do not lose their men. Let it go at that, for the
moment. I will write more about her motives later, perhaps. But
Florence was sticking on to the proprietor of the home of her
ancestors. No doubt he was also a very passionate lover. But I am
convinced that he was sick of Florence within three years of even
interrupted companionship and the life that she led him. . . .
If ever Leonora so much as mentioned in a letter that they had had
a woman staying with them--or, if she so much as mentioned a
woman's name in a letter to me--off would go a desperate cable in
cipher to that poor wretch at Branshaw, commanding him on pain
of an instant and horrible disclosure to come over and assure her
of his fidelity. I daresay he would have faced it out; I daresay he
would have thrown over Florence and taken the risk of exposure.
But there he had Leonora to deal with. And Leonora assured him
that, if the minutest fragment of the real situation ever got through
to my senses, she would wreak upon him the most terrible
vengeance that she could think of. And he did not have a very
easy job. Florence called for more and more attentions from him
as the time went on. She would make him kiss her at any moment
of the day; and it was only by his making it plain that a divorced
lady could never assume a position in the county of Hampshire
that he could prevent her from making a bolt of it with him in her
train. Oh, yes, it was a difficult job for him.
For Florence, if you please, gaining in time a more composed view
of nature, and overcome by her habits of garrulity, arrived at a
frame of mind in which she found it almost necessary to tell me
all about it--nothing less than that. She said that her situation was
too unbearable with regard to me.
She proposed to tell me all, secure a divorce from me, and go with
Edward and settle in California. . . . I do not suppose that she was
really serious in this. It would have meant the extinction of all
hopes of Branshaw Manor for her. Besides she had got it into her
head that Leonora, who was as sound as a roach, was
consumptive. She was always begging Leonora, before me, to go
and see a doctor. But, none the less, poor Edward seems to have
believed in her determination to carry him off. He would not have
gone; he cared for his wife too much. But, if Florence had put him
at it, that would have meant my getting to know of it, and his
incurring Leonora's vengeance. And she could have made it pretty
hot for him in ten or a dozen different ways. And she assured me
that she would have used every one of them. She was determined
to spare my feelings. And she was quite aware that, at that date,
the hottest she could have made it for him would have been to
refuse, herself, ever to see him again. . . .
Well, I think I have made it pretty clear. Let me come to the 4th of
August, 1913, the last day of my absolute ignorance--and, I assure
you, of my perfect happiness. For the coming of that dear girl only
added to it all.
On that 4th of August I was sitting in the lounge with a rather
odious Englishman called Bagshawe, who had arrived that night,
too late for dinner. Leonora had just gone to bed and I was waiting
for Florence and Edward and the girl to come back from a concert
at the Casino. They had not gone there all together. Florence, I
remember, had said at first that she would remain with Leonora,
and me, and Edward and the girl had gone off alone. And then
Leonora had said to Florence with perfect calmness:
"I wish you would go with those two. I think the girl ought to have
the appearance of being chaperoned with Edward in these places.
I think the time has come." So Florence, with her light step, had
slipped out after them. She was all in black for some cousin or
other. Americans are particular in those matters.
We had gone on sitting in the lounge till towards ten, when
Leonora had gone up to bed. It had been a very hot day, but there
it was cool. The man called Bagshawe had been reading The
Times on the other side of the room, but then he moved over to
me with some trifling question as a prelude to suggesting an
acquaintance. I fancy he asked me something About the poll-tax
on Kur-guests, and whether it could not be sneaked out of. He was
that sort of person.
Well, he was an unmistakable man, with a military figure, rather
exaggerated, with bulbous eyes that avoided your own, and a pallid
complexion that suggested vices practised in secret along with an
uneasy desire for making acquaintance at whatever cost. . . . The
filthy toad. . . .
He began by telling me that he came from Ludlow Manor, near
Ledbury. The name had a slightly familiar sound, though I could
not fix it in my mind. Then he began to talk about a duty on hops,
about Californian hops, about Los Angeles, where he had been.
He fencing for a topic with which he might gain my affection.
And then, quite suddenly, in the bright light of the street, I saw
Florence running. It was like that--I saw Florence running with a
face whiter than paper and her hand on the black stuff over her
heart. I tell you, my own heart stood still; I tell you I could not
move. She rushed in at the swing doors. She looked round that
place of rush chairs, cane tables and newspapers. She saw me and
opened her lips. She saw the man who was talking to me. She
stuck her hands over her face as if she wished to push her eyes
out. And she was not there any more.
I could not move; I could not stir a finger. And then that man said:
"By Jove: Florry Hurlbird." He turned upon me with an oily and
uneasy sound meant for a laugh. He was really going to ingratiate
himself with me. "Do you know who that is?" he asked. "The last
time I saw that girl she was coming out of the bedroom of a young
man called Jimmy at five o'clock in the morning. In my house at
Ledbury. You saw her recognize me." He was standing on his feet,
looking down at me. I don't know what I looked like. At any rate,
he gave a sort of gurgle and then stuttered:
"Oh, I say. . . ." Those were the last words I ever heard of Mr
Bagshawe's. A long time afterwards I pulled myself out of the
lounge and went up to Florence's room. She had not locked the
door--for the first time of our married life. She was lying, quite
respectably arranged, unlike Mrs Maidan, on her bed. She had a
little phial that rightly should have contained nitrate of amyl, in
her right hand. That was on the 4th of August, 1913.
Read next: PART III: CHAPTER I
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