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WELL, that about brings me up to the date of my receiving, in
Waterbury, the laconic cable from Edward to the effect that he
wanted me to go to Branshaw and have a chat. I was pretty busy at
the time and I was half minded to send him a reply cable to the
effect that I would start in a fortnight. But I was having a long
interview with old Mr Hurlbird's attorneys and immediately
afterwards I had to have a long interview with the Misses Hurlbird,
so I delayed cabling.
I had expected to find the Misses Hurlbird excessively old--in the
nineties or thereabouts. The time had passed so slowly that I had
the impression that it must have been thirty years since I had been
in the United States. It was only twelve years. Actually Miss
Hurlbird was just sixty-one and Miss Florence Hurlbird fifty-nine,
and they were both, mentally and physically, as vigorous as could
be desired. They were, indeed, more vigorous, mentally, than
suited my purpose, which was to get away from the United States
as quickly as I could. The Hurlbirds were an exceedingly united
family--exceedingly united except on one set of points. Each of the
three of them had a separate doctor, whom they trusted
implicitly--and each had a separate attorney. And each of them
distrusted the other's doctor and the other's attorney. And,
naturally, the doctors and the attorneys warned one all the
time--against each other. You cannot imagine how complicated it
all became for me. Of course I had an attorney of my
own--recommended to me by young Carter, my Philadelphia
nephew.
I do not mean to say that there was any unpleasantness of a
grasping kind. The problem was quite another one--a moral
dilemma. You see, old Mr Hurlbird had left all his property to
Florence with the mere request that she would have erected to him
in the city of Waterbury, Ill., a memorial that should take the form
of some sort of institution for the relief of sufferers from the heart.
Florence's money had all come to me-- and with it old Mr
Hurlbird's. He had died just five days before Florence.
Well, I was quite ready to spend a round million dollars on the
relief of sufferers from the heart. The old gentleman had left
about a million and a half; Florence had been worth about eight
hundred thousand--and as I figured it out, I should cut up at about
a million myself. Anyhow, there was ample money. But I
naturally wanted to consult the wishes of his surviving relatives
and then the trouble really began. You see, it had been discovered
that Mr Hurlbird had had nothing whatever the matter with his
heart. His lungs had been a little affected all through his life and
he had died of bronchitis. It struck Miss Florence Hurlbird that,
since her brother had died of lungs and not of heart, his money
ought to go to lung patients. That, she considered, was what her
brother would have wished. On the other hand, by a kink, that I
could not at the time understand, Miss Hurlbird insisted that I
ought to keep the money all to myself. She said that she did not
wish for any monuments to the Hurlbird family. At the time I
thought that that was because of a New England dislike for
necrological ostentation. But I can figure out now, when I
remember certain insistent and continued questions that she put to
me, about Edward Ashburnham, that there was another idea in her
mind. And Leonora has told me that, on Florence's dressing-table,
beside her dead body, there had lain a letter to Miss Hurlbird--a
letter which Leonora posted without telling me. I don't know how
Florence had time to write to her aunt; but I can quite understand
that she would not like to go out of the world without making
some comments. So I guess Florence had told Miss Hurlbird a
good bit about Edward Ashburnham in a few scrawled words--and
that that was why the old lady did not wish the name of Hurlbird
perpetuated. Perhaps also she thought that I had earned the
Hurlbird money. It meant a pretty tidy lot of discussing, what with
the doctors warning each other about the bad effects of
discussions on the health of the old ladies, and warning me
covertly against each other, and saying that old Mr Hurlbird might
have died of heart, after all, in spite of the diagnosis of his doctor.
And the solicitors all had separate methods of arranging about
how the money should be invested and entrusted and bound.
Personally, I wanted to invest the money so that the interest could
be used for the relief of sufferers from the heart. If old Mr
Hurlbird had not died of any defects in that organ he had
considered that it was defective. Moreover, Florence had certainly
died of her heart, as I saw it. And when Miss Florence Hurlbird
stood out that the money ought to go to chest sufferers I was
brought to thinking that there ought to be a chest institution too,
and I advanced the sum that I was ready to provide to a million
and a half of dollars. That would have given seven hundred and
fifty thousand to each class of invalid. I did not want money at all
badly. All I wanted it for was to be able to give Nancy Rufford a
good time. I did not know much about housekeeping expenses in
England where, I presumed, she would wish to live. I knew that
her needs at that time were limited to good chocolates, and a good
horse or two, and simple, pretty frocks. Probably she would want
more than that later on. But even if I gave a million and a half
dollars to these institutions I should still have the equivalent of
about twenty thousand a year English, and I considered that Nancy
could have a pretty good time on that or less. Anyhow, we had a
stiff set of arguments up at the Hurlbird mansion which stands on
a bluff over the town. It may strike you, silent listener, as being
funny if you happen to be European. But moral problems of that
description and the giving of millions to institutions are
immensely serious matters in my country. Indeed, they are the
staple topics for consideration amongst the wealthy classes. We
haven't got peerage and social climbing to occupy us much, and
decent people do not take interest in politics or elderly people in
sport. So that there were real tears shed by both Miss Hurlbird and
Miss Florence before I left that city. I left it quite abruptly. Four
hours after Edward's telegram came another from Leonora, saying:
"Yes, do come. You could be so helpful." I simply told my
attorney that there was the million and a half; that he could invest
it as he liked, and that the purposes must be decided by the Misses
Hurlbird. I was, anyhow, pretty well worn out by all the
discussions. And, as I have never heard yet from the Misses
Hurlbird, I rather think that Miss Hurlbird, either by revelations or
by moral force, has persuaded Miss Florence that no memorial to
their names shall be erected in the city of Waterbury, Conn. Miss
Hurlbird wept dreadfully when she heard that I was going to stay
with the Ashburnhams, but she did not make any comments. I was
aware, at that date, that her niece had been seduced by that fellow
Jimmy before I had married her--but I contrived to produce on her
the impression that I thought Florence had been a model wife.
Why, at that date I still believed that Florence had been perfectly
virtuous after her marriage to me. I had not figured it out that she
could have played it so low down as to continue her intrigue with
that fellow under my roof. Well, I was a fool. But I did not think
much about Florence at that date. My mind was occupied with
what was happening at Branshaw. I had got it into my head that
the telegrams had something to do with Nancy. It struck me that
she might have shown signs of forming an attachment for some
undesirable fellow and that Leonora wanted me to come back and
marry her out of harm's way. That was what was pretty firmly in
my mind. And it remained in my mind for nearly ten days after my
arrival at that beautiful old place. Neither Edward nor Leonora
made any motion to talk to me about anything other than the
weather and the crops. Yet, although there were several young
fellows about, I could not see that any one in particular was
distinguished by the girl's preference. She certainly appeared illish
and nervous, except when she woke up to talk gay nonsense to
me. Oh, the pretty thing that she was. . . .
I imagined that what must have happened was that the undesirable
young man had been forbidden the place and that Nancy was
fretting a little. What had happened was just Hell. Leonora had
spoken to Nancy; Nancy had spoken to Edward; Edward had
spoken to Leonora--and they had talked and talked. And talked.
You have to imagine horrible pictures of gloom and half lights,
and emotions running through silent nights--through whole nights.
You have to imagine my beautiful Nancy appearing suddenly to
Edward, rising up at the foot of his bed, with her long hair falling,
like a split cone of shadow, in the glimmer of a night-light that
burned beside him. You have to imagine her, a silent, a no doubt
agonized figure, like a spectre, suddenly offering herself to
him--to save his reason! And you have to imagine his frantic
refusal--and talk. And talk! My God!
And yet, to me, living in the house, enveloped with the charm of
the quiet and ordered living, with the silent, skilled servants
whose mere laying out of my dress clothes was like a caress--to
me who was hourly with them they appeared like tender, ordered
and devoted people, smiling, absenting themselves at the proper
intervals; driving me to meets--just good people! How the
devil--how the devil do they do it?
At dinner one evening Leonora said--she had just opened a
telegram:
"Nancy will be going to India, tomorrow, to be with her father."
No one spoke. Nancy looked at her plate; Edward went on eating
his pheasant. I felt very bad; I imagined that it would be up to me
to propose to Nancy that evening. It appeared to me to be queer
that they had not given me any warning of Nancy's departure--But
I thought that that was only English manners--some sort of
delicacy that I had not got the hang of. You must remember that at
that moment I trusted in Edward and Leonora and in Nancy
Rufford, and in the tranquility of ancient haunts of peace, as I had
trusted in my mother's love. And that evening Edward spoke to
me.
What in the interval had happened had been this:
Upon her return from Nauheim Leonora had completely broken
down--because she knew she could trust Edward. That seems odd
but, if you know anything about breakdowns, you will know that
by the ingenious torments that fate prepares for us, these things
come as soon as, a strain having relaxed, there is nothing more to
be done. It is after a husband's long illness and death that a widow
goes to pieces; it is at the end of a long rowing contest that a crew
collapses and lies forward upon its oars. And that was what
happened to Leonora.
From certain tones in Edward's voice; from the long, steady stare
that he had given her from his bloodshot eyes on rising from the
dinner table in the Nauheim hotel, she knew that, in the affair of
the poor girl, this was a case in which Edward's moral scruples, or
his social code, or his idea that it would be playing it too low
down, rendered Nancy perfectly safe. The girl, she felt sure, was
in no danger at all from Edward. And in that she was perfectly
right. The smash was to come from herself.
She relaxed; she broke; she drifted, at first quickly, then with an
increasing momentum, down the stream of destiny. You may put it
that, having been cut off from the restraints of her religion, for the
first time in her life, she acted along the lines of her instinctive
desires. I do not know whether to think that, in that she was no
longer herself; or that, having let loose the bonds of her standards,
her conventions and her traditions, she was being, for the first
time, her own natural self. She was torn between her intense,
maternal love for the girl and an intense jealousy of the woman
who realizes that the man she loves has met what appears to be the
final passion of his life. She was divided between an intense
disgust for Edward's weakness in conceiving this passion, an
intense pity for the miseries that he was enduring, and a feeling
equally intense, but one that she hid from herself--a feeling of
respect for Edward's determination to keep himself, in this
particular affair, unspotted.
And the human heart is a very mysterious thing. It is impossible to
say that Leonora, in acting as she then did, was not filled with a
sort of hatred of Edward's final virtue. She wanted, I think, to
despise him. He was, she realized gone from her for good. Then
let him suffer, let him agonize; let him, if possible, break and go
to that Hell that is the abode of broken resolves. She might have
taken a different line. It would have been so easy to send the girl
away to stay with some friends; to have taken her away herself
upon some pretext or other. That would not have cured things but
it would have been the decent line, . . . But, at that date, poor
Leonora was incapable of taking any line whatever.
She pitied Edward frightfully at one time--and then she acted
along the lines of pity; she loathed him at another and then she
acted as her loathing dictated. She gasped, as a person dying of
tuberculosis gasps for air. She craved madly for communication
with some other human soul. And the human soul that she
selected was that of the girl.
Perhaps Nancy was the only person that she could have talked to.
With her necessity for reticences, with her coldness of manner,
Leonora had singularly few intimates. She had none at all, with
the exception of the Mrs Colonel Whelen, who had advised her
about the affair with La Dolciquita, and the one or two religious,
who had guided her through life. The Colonel's wife was at that
time in Madeira; the religious she now avoided. Her visitors' book
had seven hundred names in it; there was not a soul that she could
speak to. She was Mrs Ashburnham of Branshaw Teleragh.
She was the great Mrs Ashburnham of Branshaw and she lay all
day upon her bed in her marvellous, light, airy bedroom with the
chintzes and the Chippendale and the portraits of deceased
Ashburnhams by Zoffany and Zucchero. When there was a meet
she would struggle up--supposing it were within driving
distance--and let Edward drive her and the girl to the cross-roads
or the country house. She would drive herself back alone; Edward
would ride off with the girl. Ride Leonora could not, that
season--her head was too bad. Each pace of her mare was an
anguish.
But she drove with efficiency and precision; she smiled at the
Gimmers and Ffoulkes and the Hedley Seatons. She threw with
exactitude pennies to the boys who opened gates for her; she sat
upright on the seat of the high dog-cart; she waved her hands to
Edward and Nancy as they rode off with the hounds, and every
one could hear her clear, high voice, in the chilly weather, saying:
"Have a good time!"
Poor forlorn woman! . . .
There was, however, one spark of consolation. It came from the
fact that Rodney Bayham, of Bayham, followed her always with
his eyes. It had been three years since she had tried her abortive
love-affair with him. Yet still, on the winter mornings he would
ride up to her shafts and just say: "Good day," and look at her with
eyes that were not imploring, but seemed to say: "You see, I am
still, as the Germans say, A. D.--at disposition."
It was a great consolation, not because she proposed ever to take
him up again, but because it showed her that there was in the
world one faithful soul in riding-breeches. And it showed her that
she was not losing her looks.
And, indeed, she was not losing her looks. She was forty, but she
was as clean run as on the day she had left the convent--as clear in
outline, as clear coloured in the hair, as dark blue in the eyes. She
thought that her looking-glass told her this; but there are always
the doubts. . . . Rodney Bayham's eyes took them away.
It is very singular that Leonora should not have aged at all. I
suppose that there are some types of beauty and even of youth
made for the embellishments that come with enduring sorrow.
That is too elaborately put. I mean that Leonora, if everything had
prospered, might have become too hard and, maybe, overbearing.
As it was she was tuned down to appearing efficient--and yet
sympathetic. That is the rarest of all blends. And yet I swear that
Leonora, in her restrained way, gave the impression of being
intensely sympathetic. When she listened to you she appeared also
to be listening to some sound that was going on in the distance.
But still, she listened to you and took in what you said, which,
since the record of humanity is a record of sorrows, was, as a rule,
something sad.
I think that she must have taken Nancy through many terrors of the
night and many bad places of the day. And that would account for
the girl's passionate love for the elder woman. For Nancy's love
for Leonora was an admiration that is awakened in Catholics by
their feeling for the Virgin Mary and for various of the saints. It is
too little to say that the girl would have laid her life at Leonora's
feet. Well, she laid there the offer of her virtue--and her reason.
Those were sufficient instalments of her life. It would today be
much better for Nancy Rufford if she were dead.
Perhaps all these reflections are a nuisance; but they crowd on me.
I will try to tell the story.
You see--when she came back from Nauheim Leonora began to
have her headaches--headaches lasting through whole days, during
which she could speak no word and could bear to hear no sound.
And, day after day, Nancy would sit with her, silent and
motionless for hours, steeping handkerchiefs in vinegar and water,
and thinking her own thoughts. It must have been very bad for
her--and her meals alone with Edward must have been bad for her
too--and beastly bad for Edward. Edward, of course, wavered in
his demeanour, What else could he do? At times he would sit
silent and dejected over his untouched food. He would utter
nothing but monosyllables when Nancy spoke to him. Then he
was simply afraid of the girl falling in love with him. At other
times he would take a little wine; pull himself together; attempt to
chaff Nancy about a stake and binder hedge that her mare had
checked at, or talk about the habits of the Chitralis. That was when
he was thinking that it was rough on the poor girl that he should
have become a dull companion. He realized that his talking to her
in the park at Nauheim had done her no harm.
But all that was doing a great deal of harm to Nancy. It gradually
opened her eyes to the fact that Edward was a man with his ups
and downs and not an invariably gay uncle like a nice dog, a
trustworthy horse or a girl friend. She would find him in attitudes
of frightful dejection, sunk into his armchair in the study that was
half a gun-room. She would notice through the open door that his
face was the face of an old, dead man, when he had no one to talk
to. Gradually it forced itself upon her attention that there were
profound differences between the pair that she regarded a her
uncle and her aunt. It was a conviction that came very slowly.
It began with Edward's giving an oldish horse to a young fellow
called Selmes. Selmes' father had been ruined by fraudulent
solicitor and the Selmes family had had to sell their hunters. It
was a case that had excited a good deal of sympathy in that part of
the county. And Edward, meeting the young man one day,
unmounted, and seeing him to be very unhappy, had offered to
give him an old Irish cob upon which he was riding. It was a silly
sort of thing to do really. The horse was worth from thirty to forty
pounds and Edward might have known that the gift would upset
his wife. But Edward just had to comfort that unhappy young man
whose father he had known all his life. And what made it all the
worse was that young Selmes could not afford to keep the horse
even. Edward recollected this, immediately after he had made the
offer, and said quickly:
"Of course I mean that you should stable the horse at Branshaw
until you have time to turn round or want to sell him and get a
better."
Nancy went straight home and told all this to Leonora who was
lying down. She regarded it as a splendid instance of Edward's
quick consideration for the feelings and the circumstances of the
distressed. She thought it would cheer Leonora up--because it
ought to cheer any woman up to know that she had such a
splendid husband. That was the last girlish thought she ever had.
For Leonora, whose headache had left her collected but miserably
weak, turned upon her bed and uttered words that were amazing
to the girl:
"I wish to God," she said, "that he was your husband, and not mine.
We shall be ruined. We shall be ruined. Am I never to have a
chance?" And suddenly Leonora burst into a passion of tears. She
pushed herself up from the pillows with one elbow and sat
there--crying, crying, crying, with her face hidden in her hands
and the tears falling through her fingers.
The girl flushed, stammered and whimpered as if she had been
personally insulted.
"But if Uncle Edward . . ." she began.
"That man," said Leonora, with an extraordinary bitterness, "would
give the shirt off his back and off mine--and off yours to any . . ."
She could not finish the sentence.
At that moment she had been feeling an extraordinary hatred and
contempt for her husband. All the morning and all the afternoon
she had been lying there thinking that Edward and the girl were
together--in the field and hacking it home at dusk. She had been
digging her sharp nails into her palms.
The house had been very silent in the drooping winter weather.
And then, after an eternity of torture, there had invaded it the
sound of opening doors, of the girl's gay voice saying:
"Well, it was only under the mistletoe." . . . And there was
Edward's gruff undertone. Then Nancy had come in, with feet that
had hastened up the stairs and that tiptoed as they approached the
open door of Leonora's room. Branshaw had a great big hall with
oak floors and tiger skins. Round this hall there ran a gallery upon
which Leonora's doorway gave. And even when she had the worst
of her headaches she liked to have her door open--I suppose so
that she might hear the approaching footsteps of ruin and disaster.
At any rate she hated to be in a room with a shut door.
At that moment Leonora hated Edward with a hatred that was like
hell, and she would have liked to bring her riding-whip down
across the girl's face. What right had Nancy to be young and
slender and dark, and gay at times, at times mournful? What right
had she to be exactly the woman to make Leonora's husband
happy? For Leonora knew that Nancy would have made Edward
happy.
Yes, Leonora wished to bring her riding-whip down on Nancy's
young face. She imagined the pleasure she would feel when the
lash fell across those queer features; the plea sure she would feel
at drawing the handle at the same moment toward her, so as to cut
deep into the flesh and to leave a lasting wheal.
Well, she left a lasting wheal, and her words cut deeply into the
girl's mind. . . .
They neither of them spoke about that again. A fortnight went
by--a fortnight of deep rains, of heavy fields, of bad scent.
Leonora's headaches seemed to have gone for good. She hunted
once or twice, letting herself be piloted by Bayham, whilst
Edward looked after the girl. Then, one evening, when those three
were dining alone, Edward said, in the queer, deliberate, heavy
tones that came out of him in those days (he was looking at the
table):
"I have been thinking that Nancy ought to do more for her father.
He is getting an old man. I have written to Colonel Rufford,
suggesting that she should go to him."
Leonora called out:
"How dare you? How dare you?"
The girl put her hand over her heart and cried out: "Oh, my sweet
Saviour, help mel" That was the queer way she thought within her
mind, and the words forced themselves to her lips. Edward said
nothing.
And that night, by a merciless trick of the devil that pays attention
to this sweltering hell of ours, Nancy Rufford had a letter from her
mother. It came whilst Leonora was talking to Edward, or Leonora
would have intercepted it as she had intercepted others. It was an
amazing and a horrible letter. . . .
I don't know what it contained. I just average out from its effects
on Nancy that her mother, having eloped with some worthless sort
of fellow, had done what is called "sinking lower and lower".
Whether she was actually on the streets I do not know, but I rather
think that she eked out a small allowance that she had from her
husband by that means of livelihood. And I think that she stated as
much in her letter to Nancy and upbraided the girl with living in
luxury whilst her mother starved. And it must have been horrible
in tone, for Mrs Rufford was a cruel sort of woman at the best of
times. It must have seemed to that poor girl, opening her letter, for
distraction from another grief, up in her bedroom, like the laughter
of a devil.
I just cannot bear to think of my poor dear girl at that moment. . . .
And, at the same time, Leonora was lashing, like a cold fiend, into
the unfortunate Edward. Or, perhaps, he was not so unfortunate;
because he had done what he knew to be the right thing, he may
be deemed happy. I leave it to you. At any rate, he was sitting in
his deep chair, and Leonora came into his room--for the first time
in nine years. She said:
"This is the most atrocious thing you have done in your atrocious
life." He never moved and he never looked at her. God knows
what was in Leonora's mind exactly.
I like to think that, uppermost in it was concern and horror at the
thought of the poor girl's going back to a father whose voice made
her shriek in the night. And, indeed, that motive was very strong
with Leonora. But I think there was also present the thought that
she wanted to go on torturing Edward with the girl's presence. She
was, at that time, capable of that.
Edward was sunk in his chair; there were in the room two candles,
hidden by green glass shades. The green shades were reflected in
the glasses of the book-cases that contained not books but guns
with gleaming brown barrels and fishing-rods in green baize
over-covers. There was dimly to be seen, above a mantelpiece
encumbered with spurs, hooves and bronze models of horses, a
dark-brown picture of a white horse.
"If you think," Leonora said, "that I do not know that you are in
love with the girl . . ." She began spiritedly, but she could not find
any ending for the sentence. Edward did not stir; he never spoke.
And then Leonora said:
"If you want me to divorce you, I will. You can marry her then.
She's in love with you."
He groaned at that, a little, Leonora said. Then she went away.
Heaven knows what happened in Leonora after that. She certainly
does not herself know. She probably said a good deal more to
Edward than I have been able to report; but that is all that she has
told me and I am not going to make up speeches. To follow her
psychological development of that moment I think we must allow
that she upbraided him for a great deal of their past life, whilst
Edward sat absolutely silent. And, indeed, in speaking of it
afterwards, she has said several times: "I said a great deal more to
him than I wanted to, just because he was so silent." She talked, in
fact, in the endeavour to sting him into speech.
She must have said so much that, with the expression of her
grievance, her mood changed. She went back to her own room in
the gallery, and sat there for a long time thinking. And she thought
herself into a mood of absolute unselfishness, of absolute
self-contempt, too. She said to herself that she was no good; that
she had failed in all her efforts--in her efforts to get Edward back
as in her efforts to make him curb his expenditure. She imagined
herself to be exhausted; she imagined herself to be done. Then a
great fear came over her.
She thought that Edward, after what she had said to him, must
have committed suicide. She went out on to the gallery and
listened; there was no sound in all the house except the regular
beat of the great clock in the hall. But, even in her debased
condition, she was not the person to hang about. She acted. She
went straight to Edward's room, opened the door, and looked in.
He was oiling the breech action of a gun. It was an unusual thing
for him to do, at that time of night, in his evening clothes. It never
occurred to her, nevertheless, that he was going to shoot himself
with that implement. She knew that he was doing it just for
occupation--to keep himself from thinking. He looked up when
she opened the door, his face illuminated by the light cast
upwards from the round orifices in the green candle shades.
She said:
"I didn't imagine that I should find Nancy here." She thought that
she owed that to him. He answered then:
"I don't imagine that you did imagine it." Those were the only
words he spoke that night. She went, like a lame duck, back
through the long corridors; she stumbled over the familiar tiger
skins in the dark hall. She could hardly drag one limb after the
other. In the gallery she perceived that Nancy's door was half open
and that there was a light in the girl's room. A sudden madness
possessed her, a desire for action, a thirst for self-explanation.
Their rooms all gave on to the gallery; Leonora's to the east, the
girl's next, then Edward's. The sight of those three open doors,
side by side, gaping to receive whom the chances of the black
night might bring, made Leonora shudder all over her body. She
went into Nancy's room.
The girl was sitting perfectly still in an armchair, very upright, as
she had been taught to sit at the convent. She appeared to be as
calm as a church; her hair fell, black and like a pall, down over
both her shoulders. The fire beside her was burning brightly; she
must have just put coals on. She was in a white silk kimono that
covered her to the feet. The clothes that she had taken off were
exactly folded upon the proper seats. Her long hands were one
upon each arm of the chair that had a pink and white chintz back.
Leonora told me these things. She seemed to think it extraordinary
that the girl could have done such orderly things as fold up the
clothes she had taken off upon such a night--when Edward had
announced that he was going to send her to her father, and when,
from her mother, she had received that letter. The letter, in its
envelope, was in her right hand.
Leonora did not at first perceive it. She said:
"What are you doing so late?"
The girl answered: "Just thinking."
They seemed to think in whispers and to speak below their breaths.
Then Leonora's eyes fell on the envelope, and she recognized Mrs
Rufford's handwriting.
It was one of those moments when thinking was impossible,
Leonora said. It was as if stones were being thrown at her from
every direction and she could only run. She heard herself exclaim:
"Edward's dying--because of you. He's dying. He's worth more than
either of us. . . ."
The girl looked past her at the panels of the half-closed door.
"My poor father," she said, "my poor father." "You must stay
here," Leonora answered fiercely. "You must stay here. I tell you
you must stay here."
"I am going to Glasgow," Nancy answered. "I shall go to Glasgow
tomorrow morning. My mother is in Glasgow."
It appears that it was in Glasgow that Mrs Rufford pursued her
disorderly life. She had selected that city, not because it was more
profitable but because it was the natal home of her husband to
whom she desired to cause as much pain as possible.
"You must stay here," Leonora began, "to save Edward. He's dying
for love of you."
The girl turned her calm eyes upon Leonora. "I know it," she said.
"And I am dying for love of him."
Leonora uttered an "Ah," that, in spite of herself, was an "Ah" of
horror and of grief.
"That is why," the girl continued, "I am going to Glasgow--to take
my mother away from there." She added, "To the ends of the
earth," for, if the last months had made her nature that of a
woman, her phrases were still romantically those of a schoolgirl.
It was as if she had grown up so quickly that there had not been
time to put her hair up. But she added: "We're no good--my
mother and I."
Leonora said, with her fierce calmness:
"No. No. You're not no good. It's I that am no good. You can't let
that man go on to ruin for want of you. You must belong to him."
The girl, she said, smiled at her with a queer, far-away smile--as if
she were a thousand years old, as if Leonora were a tiny child.
"I knew you would come to that,' she said, very slowly. "But we
are not worth it--Edward and I."
Read next: PART IV: CHAPTER III
Read previous: PART IV: CHAPTER I
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