I HAVE, I am aware, told this story in a very rambling way so that
it may be difficult for anyone to find their path through what may
be a sort of maze. I cannot help it. I have stuck to my idea of
being in a country cottage with a silent listener, hearing between
the gusts of the wind and amidst the noises of the distant sea, the
story as it comes. And, when one discusses an affair--a long, sad
affair--one goes back, one goes forward. One remembers points
that one has forgotten and one explains them all the more minutely
since one recognizes that one has forgotten to mention them in
their proper places and that one may have given, by omitting
them, a false impression. I console myself with thinking that this
is a real story and that, after all, real stories are probably told best
in the way a person telling a story would tell them. They will then
seem most real.
At any rate, I think I have brought my story up to the date of
Maisie Maidan's death. I mean that I have explained everything
that went before it from the several points of view that were
necessary--from Leonora's, from Edward's and, to some extent,
from my own. You have the facts for the trouble of finding them;
you have the points of view as far as I could ascertain or put them.
Let me imagine myself back, then, at the day of Maisie's death--or
rather at the moment of Florence's dissertation on the Protest, up
in the old Castle of the town of M----. Let us consider Leonora's
point of view with regard to Florence; Edward's, of course, I
cannot give you, for Edward naturally never spoke of his affair
with my wife. (I may, in what follows, be a little hard on Florence;
but you must remember that I have been writing away at this story
now for six months and reflecting longer and longer upon these
affairs.) And the longer I think about them the more certain I
become that Florence was a contaminating influence--she
depressed and deteriorated poor Edward; she deteriorated,
hopelessly, the miserable Leonora. There is no doubt that she
caused Leonora's character to deteriorate. If there was a fine point
about Leonora it was that she was proud and that she was silent.
But that pride and that silence broke when she made that
extraordinary outburst, in the shadowy room that contained the
Protest, and in the little terrace looking over the river. I don't
mean to say that she was doing a wrong thing. She was certainly
doing right in trying to warn me that Florence was making eyes at
her husband. But, if she did the right thing, she was doing it in the
wrong way. Perhaps she should have reflected longer; she should
have spoken, if she wanted to speak, only after reflection. Or it
would have been better if she had acted--if, for instance, she had
so chaperoned Florence that private communication between her
and Edward became impossible. She should have gone
eavesdropping; she should have watched outside bedroom doors.
It is odious; but that is the way the job is done. She should have
taken Edward away the moment Maisie was dead. No, she acted
wrongly. . . . And yet, poor thing, is it for me to condemn her--and
what did it matter in the end? If it had not been Florence, it would
have been some other . . . Still, it might have been a better woman
than my wife. For Florence was vulgar; Florence was a common
flirt who would not, at the last, lacher prise; and Florence was an
unstoppable talker. You could not stop her; nothing would stop
her. Edward and Leonora were at least proud and reserved people.
Pride and reserve are not the only things in life; perhaps they are
not even the best things. But if they happen to be your particular
virtues you will go all to pieces if you let them go. And Leonora let
them. go. She let them go before poor Edward did even. Consider
her position when she burst out over the Luther-Protest. . . .
Consider her agonies. . . .
You are to remember that the main passion of her life was to get
Edward back; she had never, till that moment, despaired of getting
him back. That may seem ignoble; but you have also to remember
that her getting him back represented to her not only a victory for
herself. It would, as it appeared to her, have been a victory for all
wives and a victory for her Church. That was how it presented
itself to her. These things are a little inscrutable. I don't know why
the getting back of Edward should have represented to her a
victory for all wives, for Society and for her Church. Or, maybe, I
have a glimmering of it. She saw life as a perpetual sex-baffle
between husbands who desire to be unfaithful to their wives, and
wives who desire to recapture their husbands in the end. That was
her sad and modest view of matrimony. Man, for her, was a sort
of brute who must have his divagations, his moments of excess, his
nights out, his, let us say, rutting seasons. She had read few novels,
so that the idea of a pure and constant love succeeding the sound
of wedding bells had never been very much presented to her. She
went, numbed and terrified, to the Mother Superior of her
childhood's convent with the tale of Edward's infidelities with the
Spanish dancer, and all that the old nun, who appeared to her to
be infinitely wise, mystic and reverend, had done had been to
shake her head sadly and to say:
"Men are like that. By the blessing of God it will all come right in
the end."
That was what was put before her by her spiritual advisers as her
programme in life. Or, at any rate, that was how their teachings
came through to her--that was the lesson she told me she had
learned of them. I don't know exactly what they taught her. The lot
of women was patience and patience and again patience--ad
majorem Dei gloriam--until upon the appointed day, if God saw
fit, she should have her reward. If then, in the end, she should have
succeeded in getting Edward back she would have kept her man
within the limits that are all that wifehood has to expect. She was
even taught that such excesses in men are natural, excusable--as if
they had been children.
And the great thing was that there should be no scandal before the
congregation. So she had clung to the idea of getting Edward back
with a fierce passion that was like an agony. She had looked the
other way; she had occupied herself solely with one idea. That
was the idea of having Edward appear, when she did get him
back, wealthy, glorious as it were, on account of his lands, and
upright. She would show, in fact, that in an unfaithful world one
Catholic woman had succeeded in retaining the fidelity of her
husband. And she thought she had come near her desires.
Her plan with regard to Maisie had appeared to be working
admirably. Edward had seemed to be cooling off towards the girl.
He did not hunger to pass every minute of the time at Nauheirn
beside the child's recumbent form; he went out to polo matches;
he played auction bridge in the evenings; he was cheerful and
bright. She was certain that he was not trying to seduce that poor
child; she was beginning to think that he had never tried to do so.
He seemed in fact to be dropping back into what he had been for
Maisie in the beginning--a kind, attentive, superior officer in the
regiment, paying gallant attentions to a bride. They were as open
in their little flirtations as the dayspring from on high. And Maisie
had not appeared to fret when he went off on excursions with us;
she had to lie down for so many hours on her bed every afternoon,
and she had not appeared to crave for the attentions of Edward at
those times. And Edward was beginning to make little advances to
Leonora. Once or twice, in private--for he often did it before
people--he had said: "How nice you look!" or "What a pretty
dress!" She had gone with Florence to Frankfurt, where they dress
as well as in Paris, and had got herself a gown or two. She could
afford it, and Florence was an excellent adviser as to dress. She
seemed to have got hold of the clue to the riddle.
Yes, Leonora seemed to have got hold of the clue to the riddle. She
imagined herself to have been in the wrong to some extent in the
past. She should not have kept Edward on such a tight rein with
regard to money. She thought she was on the right tack in letting
him--as she had done only with fear and irresolution--have again
the control of bis income. He came even a step towards her and
acknowledged, spontaneously, that she had been right in
husbanding, for all those years, their resources. He said to her one
day:
"You've done right, old girl. There's nothing I like so much as to
have a little to chuck away. And I can do it, thanks to you."
That was really, she said, the happiest moment of her life. And he,
seeming to realize it, had ventured to pat her on the shoulder. He
had, ostensibly, come in to borrow a safety-pin of her. And the
occasion of her boxing Maisie's ears, had, after it was over,
riveted in her mind the idea that there was no intrigue between
Edward and Mrs Maidan. She imagined that, from henceforward,
all that she had to do was to keep him well supplied with money
and his mind amused with pretty girls. She was convinced that he
was coming back to her. For that month she no longer repelled his
timid advances that never went very far. For he certainly made
timid advances. He patted her on the shoulder; he whispered into
her ear little jokes about the odd figures that they saw up at the
Casino. It was not much to make a little joke--but the whispering
of it was a precious intimacy. . . .
And then--smash--it all went. It went to pieces at the moment
when Florence laid her hand upon Edward's wrist, as it lay on the
glass sheltering the manuscript of the Protest, up in the high tower
with the shutters where the sunlight here and there streamed in.
Or, rather, it went when she noticed the look in Edward's eyes as
he gazed back into Florence's. She knew that look.
She had known--since the first moment of their meeting, since the
moment of our all sitting down to dinner together--that Florence
was making eyes at Edward. But she had seen so many women
make eyes at Edward--hundreds and hundreds of women, in
railway trains, in hotels, aboard liners, at street corners. And she
had arrived at thinking that Edward took little stock in women
that made eyes at him. She had formed what was, at that time, a
fairly correct estimate of the methods of, the reasons for, Edward's
loves. She was certain that hitherto they had consisted of the short
passion for the Dolciquita, the real sort of love for Mrs Basil, and
what she deemed the pretty courtship of Maisie Maidan. Besides
she despised Florence so haughtily that she could not imagine
Edward's being attracted by her. And she and Maisie were a sort
of bulwark round him. She wanted, besides, to keep her eyes on
Florence--for Florence knew that she had boxed Maisie's ears.
And Leonora desperately desired that her union with Edward
should appear to be flawless. But all that went. . . .
With the answering gaze of Edward into Florence's blue and
uplifted eyes, she knew that it had all gone. She knew that that
gaze meant that those two had had long conversations of an
intimate kind--about their likes and dislikes, about their natures,
about their views of marriage. She knew what it meant that she,
when we all four walked out together, had always been with me
ten yards ahead of Florence and Edward. She did not imagine that
it had gone further than talks about their likes and dislikes, about
their natures or about marriage as an institution. But, having
watched Edward all her life, she knew that that laying on of
hands, that answering of gaze with gaze, meant that the thing was
unavoidable. Edward was such a serious person.
She knew that any attempt on her part to separate those two would
be to rivet on Edward an irrevocable passion; that, as I have
before told you, it was a trick of Edward's nature to believe that
the seducing of a woman gave her an irrevocable hold over him
for life. And that touching of hands, she knew, would give that
woman an irrevocable claim--to be seduced. And she so despised
Florence that she would have preferred it to be a parlour-maid.
There are very decent parlour-maids.
And, suddenly, there came into her mind the conviction that
Maisie Maidan had a real passion for Edward; that this would
break her heart--and that she, Leonora, would be responsible for
that. She went, for the moment, mad. She clutched me by the
wrist; she dragged me down those stairs and across that
whispering Rittersaal with the high painted pillars, the high
painted chimney-piece. I guess she did not go mad enough.
She ought to have said:
"Your wife is a harlot who is going to be my husband's mistress . .
." That might have done the trick. But, even in her madness, she
was afraid to go as far as that. She was afraid that, if she did,
Edward and Florence would make a bolt of it, and that, if they did
that, she would lose forever all chance of getting him back in the
end. She acted very badly to me.
Well, she was a tortured soul who put her Church before the
interests of a Philadelphia Quaker. That is all right--I daresay the
Church of Rome is the more important of the two.
A week after Maisie Maidan's death she was aware that Florence
had become Edward's mistress. She waited outside Florence's door
and met Edward as he came away. She said nothing and he only
grunted. But I guess he had a bad time.
Yes, the mental deterioration that Florence worked in Leonora was
extraordinary; it smashed up her whole life and all her chances. It
made her, in the first place, hopeless--for she could not see how,
after that, Edward could return to her--after a vulgar intrigue with
a vulgar woman. His affair with Mrs Basil, which was now all that
she had to bring, in her heart, against him, she could not find it in
her to call an intrigue. It was a love affair--a pure enough thing in
its way. But this seemed to her to be a horror--a wantonness, all
the more detestable to her, because she so detested Florence. And
Florence talked. . . .
That was what was terrible, because Florence forced Leonora
herself to abandon her high reserve--Florence and the situation. It
appears that Florence was in two minds whether to confess to me
or to Leonora. Confess she had to. And she pitched at last on
Leonora, because if it had been me she would have had to confess
a great deal more. Or, at least, I might have guessed a great deal
more, about her "heart", and about Jimmy. So she went to Leonora
one day and began hinting and hinting. And she enraged Leonora
to such an extent that at last Leonora said:
"You want to tell me that you are Edward's mistress. You can be. I
have no use for him." That was really a calamity for Leonora,
because, once started, there was no stopping the talking. She tried
to stop--but it was not to be done. She found it necessary to send
Edward messages through Florence; for she would not speak to
him. She had to give him, for instance, to understand that if I ever
came to know of his intrigue she would ruin him beyond repair.
And it complicated matters a good deal that Edward, at about this
time, was really a little in love with her. He thought that he had
treated her so badly; that she was so fine. She was so mournful
that he longed to comfort her, and he thought himself such a
blackguard that there was nothing he would not have done to
make amends. And Florence communicated these items of
information to Leonora.
I don't in the least blame Leonora for her coarseness to Florence; it
must have done Florence a world of good. But I do blame her for
giving way to what was in the end a desire for
communicativeness. You see that business cut her off from her
Church. She did not want to confess what she was doing because
she was afraid that her spiritual advisers would blame her for
deceiving me. I rather imagine that she would have preferred
damnation to breaking my heart. That is what it works out at. She
need not have troubled.
But, having no priests to talk to, she had to talk to someone, and as
Florence insisted on talking to her, she talked back, in short,
explosive sentences, like one of the damned. Precisely like one of
the damned. Well, if a pretty period in hell on this earth can spare
her any period of pain in Eternity--where there are not any
periods--I guess Leonora will escape hell fire.
Her conversations with Florence would be like this. Florence
would happen in on her, whilst she was doing her wonderful hair,
with a proposition from Edward, who seems about that time to
have conceived the naïve idea that he might become a
polygamist. I daresay it was Florence who put it into his head.
Anyhow, I am not responsible for the oddities of the human
psychology. But it certainly appears that at about that date Edward
cared more for Leonora than he had ever done before--or, at any
rate, for a long time. And, if Leonora had been a person to play
cards and if she had played her cards well, and if she had had no
sense of shame and so on, she might then have shared Edward
with Florence until the time came for jerking that poor cuckoo out
of the nest. Well, Florence would come to Leonora with some
such proposition. I do not mean to say that she put it baldly, like
that. She stood out that she was not Edward's mistress until
Leonora said that she had seen Edward coming out of her room at
an advanced hour of the night. That checked Florence a bit; but
she fell back upon her "heart" and stuck out that she had merely
been conversing with Edward in order to bring him to a better
frame of mind. Florence had, of course, to stick to that story; for
even Florence would not have had the face to implore Leonora to
grant her favours to Edward if she had admitted that she was
Edward's mistress. That could not be done. At the same time
Florence had such a pressing desire to talk about something. There
would have been nothing else to talk about but a rapprochement
between that estranged pair. So Florence would go on babbling
and Leonora would go on brushing her hair. And then Leonora
would say suddenly something like:
"I should think myself defiled if Edward touched me now that he
has touched you."
That would discourage Florence a bit; but after a week or so, on
another morning she would have another try.
And even in other things Leonora deteriorated. She had promised
Edward to leave the spending of his own income in his own
hands. And she had fully meant to do that. I daresay she would
have done it too; though, no doubt, she would have spied upon his
banking account in secret. She was not a Roman Catholic for
nothing. But she took so serious a view of Edward's unfaithfulness
to the memory of poor little Maisie that she could not trust him
any more at all .
So when she got back to Branshaw she started, after less than a
month, to worry him about the minutest items of his expenditure.
She allowed him to draw his own cheques, but there was hardly a
cheque that she did not scrutinize--except for a private account of
about five hundred a year which, tacitly, she allowed him to keep
for expenditure on his mistress or mistresses. He had to have his
jaunts to Paris; he had to send expensive cables in cipher to
Florence about twice a week. But she worried him about his
expenditure on wines, on fruit trees, on harness, on gates, on the
account at his blacksmith's for work done to a new patent Army
stirrup that he was trying to invent. She could not see why he
should bother to invent a new Army stirrup, and she was really
enraged when, after the invention was mature, he made a present
to the War Office of the designs and the patent rights. It was a
remarkably good stirrup.
I have told you, I think, that Edward spent a great deal of time, and
about two hundred pounds for law fees on getting a poor girl, the
daughter of one of his gardeners, acquitted of a charge of
murdering her baby. That was positively the last act of Edward's
life. It came at a time when Nancy Rufford was on her way to
India; when the most horrible gloom was over the household;
when Edward himself was in an agony and behaving as prettily as
he knew how. Yet even then Leonora made him a terrible scene
about this expenditure of time and trouble. She sort of had the
vague idea that what had passed with the girl and the rest of it
ought to have taught Edward a lesson--the lesson of economy. She
threatened to take his banking account away from him again. I
guess that made him cut his throat. He might have stuck it out
otherwise--but the thought that he had lost Nancy and that, in
addition, there was nothing left for him but a dreary, dreary
succession of days in which he could be of no public service . . .
Well, it finished him.
It was during those years that Leonora tried to get up a love affair
of her own with a fellow called Bayham--a decent sort of fellow.
A really nice man. But the affair was no sort of success. I have
told you about it already. . . .
Read next: PART IV#CHAPTER II
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