The Good Soldier

So began those nine years of uninterrupted tranquillity.  They were characterized by an extraordinary want of any communicativeness on the part of the Ashburnhams to which we, on our part, replied by leaving out quite as extraordinarily, and nearly as completely, the personal note.  Indeed, you may take it that what characterized our relationship was an atmosphere of taking everything for granted.  The given proposition was, that we were all “good people.”  We took for granted that we all liked beef underdone but not too underdone; that both men preferred a good liqueur brandy after lunch; that both women drank a very light Rhine wine qualified with Fachingen water—­that sort of thing.  It was also taken for granted that we were both sufficiently well off to afford anything that we could reasonably want in the way of amusements fitting to our station—­that we could take motor cars and carriages by the day; that we could give each other dinners and dine our friends and we could indulge if we liked in economy.  Thus, Florence was in the habit of having the Daily Telegraph sent to her every day from London.  She was always an Anglo-maniac, was Florence; the Paris edition of the New York Herald was always good enough for me.  But when we discovered that the Ashburnhams’ copy of the London paper followed them from England, Leonora and Florence decided between them to suppress one subscription one year and the other the next.  Similarly it was the habit of the Grand Duke of Nassau Schwerin, who came yearly to the baths, to dine once with about eighteen families of regular Kur guests.  In return he would give a dinner of all the eighteen at once.  And, since these dinners were rather expensive (you had to take the Grand Duke and a good many of his suite and any members of the diplomatic bodies that might be there)—­Florence and Leonora, putting their heads together, didn’t see why we shouldn’t give the Grand Duke his dinner together.  And so we did.  I don’t suppose the Serenity minded that economy, or even noticed it.  At any rate, our joint dinner to the Royal Personage gradually assumed the aspect of a yearly function.  Indeed, it grew larger and larger, until it became a sort of closing function for the season, at any rate as far as we were concerned.  I don’t in the least mean to say that we were the sort of persons who aspired to mix “with royalty.”  We didn’t; we hadn’t any claims; we were just “good people.”  But the Grand Duke was a pleasant, affable sort of royalty, like the late King Edward VII, and it was pleasant to hear him talk about the races and, very occasionally, as a bonne bouche, about his nephew, the Emperor; or to have him pause for a moment in his walk to ask after the progress of our cures or to be benignantly interested in the amount of money we had put on Lelöffel’s hunter for the Frankfurt Welter Stakes.

But upon my word, I don’t know how we put in our time.  How does one put in one’s time?  How is it possible to have achieved nine years and to have nothing whatever to show for it?  Nothing whatever, you understand.  Not so much as a bone penholder, carved to resemble a chessman and with a hole in the top through which you could see four views of Nauheim.  And, as for experience, as for knowledge of one’s fellow beings—­nothing either.  Upon my word, I couldn’t tell you offhand whether the lady who sold the so expensive violets at the bottom of the road that leads to the station, was cheating me or no; I can’t say whether the porter who carried our traps across the station at Leghorn was a thief or no when he said that the regular tariff was a lira a parcel.  The instances of honesty that one comes across in this world are just as amazing as the instances of dishonesty.  After forty-five years of mixing with one’s kind, one ought to have acquired the habit of being able to know something about one’s fellow beings.  But one doesn’t.

I think the modern civilized habit—­the modern English habit of taking every one for granted—­is a good deal to blame for this.  I have observed this matter long enough to know the queer, subtle thing that it is; to know how the faculty, for what it is worth, never lets you down.

Mind, I am not saying that this is not the most desirable type of life in the world; that it is not an almost unreasonably high standard.  For it is really nauseating, when you detest it, to have to eat every day several slices of thin, tepid, pink india rubber, and it is disagreeable to have to drink brandy when you would prefer to be cheered up by warm, sweet Kümmel.  And it is nasty to have to take a cold bath in the morning when what you want is really a hot one at night.  And it stirs a little of the faith of your fathers that is deep down within you to have to have it taken for granted that you are an Episcopalian when really you are an old-fashioned Philadelphia Quaker.

But these things have to be done; it is the cock that the whole of this society owes to Æsculapius.

And the odd, queer thing is that the whole collection of rules applies to anybody—­to the anybodies that you meet in hotels, in railway trains, to a less degree, perhaps, in steamers, but even, in the end, upon steamers.  You meet a man or a woman and, from tiny and intimate sounds, from the slightest of movements, you know at once whether you are concerned with good people or with those who won’t do.  You know, this is to say, whether they will go rigidly through with the whole programme from the underdone beef to the Anglicanism.  It won’t matter whether they be short or tall; whether the voice squeak like a marionette or rumble like a town bull’s; it won’t matter whether they are Germans, Austrians, French, Spanish, or even Brazilians—­ they will be the Germans or Brazilians who take a cold bath every morning and who move, roughly speaking, in diplomatic circles.

But the inconvenient—­well, hang it all, I will say it—­the damnable nuisance of the whole thing is, that with all the taking for granted, you never really get an inch deeper than the things I have catalogued.

I can give you a rather extraordinary instance of this.  I can’t remember whether it was in our first year—­the first year of us four at Nauheim, because, of course, it would have been the fourth year of Florence and myself—­but it must have been in the first or second year.  And that gives the measure at once of the extraordinariness of our discussion and of the swiftness with which intimacy had grown up between us.  On the one hand we seemed to start out on the expedition so naturally and with so little preparation, , that it was as if we must have made many such excursions before; and our intimacy seemed so deep. . . .

Yet the place to which we went was obviously one to which Florence at least would have wanted to take us quite early, so that you would almost think we should have gone there together at the beginning of our intimacy.  Florence was singularly expert as a guide to archaeological expeditions and there was nothing she liked so much as taking people round ruins and showing you the window from which some one looked down upon the murder of some one else.  She only did it once; but she did it quite magnificently.  She could find her way, with the sole help of Baedeker, as easily about any old monument as she could about any American city where the blocks are all square and the streets all numbered, so that you can go perfectly easily from Twenty-fourth to Thirtieth.

Now it happens that fifty minutes away from Nauheim, by a good train, is the ancient city of M——­, upon a great pinnacle of basalt, girt with a triple road running sideways up its shoulder like a scarf.  And at the top there is a castle—­not a square castle like Windsor, but a castle all slate gables and high peaks with gilt weathercocks flashing bravely—­the castle of St Elizabeth of Hungary.  It has the disadvantage of being in Prussia; and it is always disagreeable to go into that country; but it is very old and there are many double-spired churches and it stands up like a pyramid out of the green valley of the Lahn.  I don’t suppose the Ashburnhams wanted especially to go there and I didn’t especially want to go there myself.  But, you understand, there was no objection.  It was part of the cure to make an excursion three or four times a week.  So that we were all quite unanimous in being grateful to Florence for providing the motive power.  Florence, of course, had a motive of her own.  She was at that time engaged in educating Captain Ashburnham—­oh, of course, quite pour le bon motif!  She used to say to Leonora:  “I simply can’t understand how you can let him live by your side and be so ignorant!” Leonora herself always struck me as being remarkably well educated.  At any rate, she knew beforehand all that Florence had to tell her.  Perhaps she got it up out of Baedeker before Florence was up in the morning.  I don’t mean to say that you would ever have known that Leonora knew anything, but if Florence started to tell us how Ludwig the Courageous wanted to have three wives at once—­in which he differed from Henry VIII, who wanted them one after the other, and this caused a good deal of trouble—­if Florence started to tell us this, Leonora would just nod her head in a way that quite pleasantly rattled my poor wife.

She used to exclaim:  “Well, if you knew it, why haven’t you told it all already to Captain Ashburnham?  I’m sure he finds it interesting!” And Leonora would look reflectively at her husband and say:  “I have an idea that it might injure his hand—­the hand, you know, used in connection with horses’ mouths. . . .”  And poor Ashburnham would blush and mutter and would say:  “That’s all right.  Don’t you bother about me.”

I fancy his wife’s irony did quite alarm poor Teddy; because one evening he asked me seriously in the smoking-room if I thought that having too much in one’s head would really interfere with one’s quickness in polo.  It struck him, he said, that brainy Johnnies generally were rather muffs when they got on to four legs.  I reassured him as best I could.  I told him that he wasn’t likely to take in enough to upset his balance.  At that time the Captain was quite evidently enjoying being educated by Florence.  She used to do it about three or four times a week under the approving eyes of Leonora and myself.  It wasn’t, you understand, systematic.  It came in bursts.  It was Florence clearing up one of the dark places of the earth, leaving the world a little lighter than she had found it.  She would tell him the story of Hamlet; explain the form of a symphony, humming the first and second subjects to him, and so on; she would explain to him the difference between Arminians and Erastians; or she would give him a short lecture on the early history of the United States.  And it was done in a way well calculated to arrest a young attention.  Did you ever read Mrs Markham?  Well, it was like that. . . .

But our excursion to M——­ was a much larger, a much more full dress affair.  You see, in the archives of the Schloss in that city there was a document which Florence thought would finally give her the chance to educate the whole lot of us together.  It really worried poor Florence that she couldn’t, in matters of culture, ever get the better of Leonora.  I don’t know what Leonora knew or what she didn’t know, but certainly she was always there whenever Florence brought out any information.  And she gave, somehow, the impression of really knowing what poor Florence gave the impression of having only picked up.  I can’t exactly define it.  It was almost something physical.  Have you ever seen a retriever dashing in play after a greyhound?  You see the two running over a green field, almost side by side, and suddenly the retriever makes a friendly snap at the other.  And the greyhound simply isn’t there.  You haven’t observed it quicken its speed or strain a limb; but there it is, just two yards in front of the retriever’s outstretched muzzle.  So it was with Florence and Leonora in matters of culture.

But on this occasion I knew that something was up.  I found Florence some days before, reading books like Ranke’s History of the Popes, Symonds’ Renaissance, Motley’s Rise of the Dutch Republic and Luther’s Table Talk.

I must say that, until the astonishment came, I got nothing but pleasure out of the little expedition.  I like catching the two-forty; I like the slow, smooth roll of the great big trains—­and they are the best trains in the world!  I like being drawn through the green country and looking at it through the clear glass of the great windows.  Though, of course, the country isn’t really green.  The sun shines, the earth is blood red and purple and red and green and red.  And the oxen in the ploughlands are bright varnished brown and black and blackish purple; and the peasants are dressed in the black and white of magpies; and there are great Rocks of magpies too.  Or the peasants’ dresses in another field where there are little mounds of hay that will be grey-green on the sunny side and purple in the shadows—­the peasants’ dresses are vermilion with emerald green ribbons and purple skirts and white shirts and black velvet stomachers.  Still, the impression is that you are drawn through brilliant green meadows that run away on each side to the dark purple fir-woods; the basalt pinnacles; the immense forests.  And there is meadowsweet at the edge of the streams, and cattle.  Why, I remember on that afternoon I saw a brown cow hitch its horns under the stomach of a black and white animal and the black and white one was thrown right into the middle of a narrow stream.  I burst out laughing.  But Florence was imparting information so hard and Leonora was listening so intently that no one noticed me.  As for me, I was pleased to be off duty; I was pleased to think that Florence for the moment was indubitably out of mischief—­because she was talking about Ludwig the Courageous (I think it was Ludwig the Courageous but I am not an historian) about Ludwig the Courageous of Hessen who wanted to have three wives at once and patronized Luther—­something like that!—­I was so relieved to be off duty, because she couldn’t possibly be doing anything to excite herself or set her poor heart a-fluttering—­that the incident of the cow was a real joy to me.  I chuckled over it from time to time for the whole rest of the day.  Because it does look very funny, you know, to see a black and white cow land on its back in the middle of a stream.  It is so just exactly what one doesn’t expect of a cow.

I suppose I ought to have pitied the poor animal; but I just didn’t.  I was out for enjoyment.  And I just enjoyed myself.  It is so pleasant to be drawn along in front of the spectacular towns with the peaked castles and the many double spires.  In the sunlight gleams come from the city—­gleams from the glass of windows; from the gilt signs of apothecaries; from the ensigns of the student corps high up in the mountains; from the helmets of the funny little soldiers moving their stiff little legs in white linen trousers.  And it was pleasant to get out in the great big spectacular Prussian station with the hammered bronze ornaments and the paintings of peasants and flowers and cows; and to hear Florence bargain energetically with the driver of an ancient droschka drawn by two lean horses.  Of course, I spoke German much more correctly than Florence, though I never could rid myself quite of the accent of the Pennsylvania Duitsch of my childhood.  Anyhow, we were drawn in a sort of triumph, for five marks without any trinkgeld, right up to the castle.  And we were taken through the museum and saw the fire-backs, the old glass, the old swords and the antique contraptions.  And we went up winding corkscrew staircases and through the Rittersaal, the great painted hall where the Reformer and his friends met for the first time under the protection of the gentleman that had three wives at once and formed an alliance with the gentleman that had six wives, one after the other (I’m not really interested in these facts but they have a bearing on my story).  And we went through chapels, and music rooms, right up immensely high in the air to a large old chamber, full of presses, with heavily-shuttered windows all round.  And Florence became positively electric.  She told the tired, bored custodian what shutters to open; so that the bright sunlight streamed in palpable shafts into the dim old chamber.  She explained that this was Luther’s bedroom and that just where the sunlight fell had stood his bed.  As a matter of fact, I believe that she was wrong and that Luther only stopped, as it were, for lunch, in order to evade pursuit.  But, no doubt, it would have been his bedroom if he could have been persuaded to stop the night.  And then, in spite of the protest of the custodian, she threw open another shutter and came tripping back to a large glass case.

“And there,” she exclaimed with an accent of gaiety, of triumph, and of audacity.  She was pointing at a piece of paper, like the half-sheet of a letter with some faint pencil scrawls that might have been a jotting of the amounts we were spending during the day.  And I was extremely happy at her gaiety, in her triumph, in her audacity.  Captain Ashburnham had his hands upon the glass case.  “There it is—­the Protest.”  And then, as we all properly stage-managed our bewilderment, she continued:  “Don’t you know that is why we were all called Protestants?  That is the pencil draft of the Protest they drew up.  You can see the signatures of Martin Luther, and Martin Bucer, and Zwingli, and Ludwig the Courageous. . . .”

I may have got some of the names wrong, but I know that Luther and Bucer were there.  And her animation continued and I was glad.  She was better and she was out of mischief.  She continued, looking up into Captain Ashburnham’s eyes:  “It’s because of that piece of paper that you’re honest, sober, industrious, provident, and clean-lived.  If it weren’t for that piece of paper you’d be like the Irish or the Italians or the Poles, but particularly the Irish. . . .”

And she laid one finger upon Captain Ashburnham’ s wrist.

I was aware of something treacherous, something frightful, something evil in the day.  I can’t define it and can’t find a simile for it.  It wasn’t as if a snake had looked out of a hole.  No, it was as if my heart had missed a beat.  It was as if we were going to run and cry out; all four of us in separate directions, averting our heads.  In Ashburnham’s face I know that there was absolute panic.  I was horribly frightened and then I discovered that the pain in my left wrist was caused by Leonora’s clutching it: 

“I can’t stand this,” she said with a most extraordinary passion; “I must get out of this.”  I was horribly frightened.  It came to me for a moment, though I hadn’t time to think it, that she must be a madly jealous woman—­jealous of Florence and Captain Ashburnham, of all people in the world!  And it was a panic in which we fled!  We went right down the winding stairs, across the immense Rittersaal to a little terrace that overlooks the Lahn, the broad valley and the immense plain into which it opens out.

“Don’t you see?” she said, “don’t you see what’s going on?” The panic again stopped my heart.  I muttered, I stuttered—­I don’t know how I got the words out: 

“No!  What’s the matter?  Whatever’s the matter?”

She looked me straight in the eyes; and for a moment I had the feeling that those two blue discs were immense, were overwhelming, were like a wall of blue that shut me off from the rest of the world.  I know it sounds absurd; but that is what it did feel like.

“Don’t you see,” she said, with a really horrible bitterness, with a really horrible lamentation in her voice, “Don’t you see that that’s the cause of the whole miserable affair; of the whole sorrow of the world?  And of the eternal damnation of you and me and them. . . .”

I don’t remember how she went on; I was too frightened; I was too amazed.  I think I was thinking of running to fetch assistance—­a doctor, perhaps, or Captain Ashburnham.  Or possibly she needed Florence’s tender care, though, of course, it would have been very bad for Florence’s heart.  But I know that when I came out of it she was saying:  “Oh, where are all the bright, happy, innocent beings in the world?  Where’s happiness?  One reads of it in books!”

She ran her hand with a singular clawing motion upwards over her forehead.  Her eyes were enormously distended; her face was exactly that of a person looking into the pit of hell and seeing horrors there.  And then suddenly she stopped.  She was, most amazingly, just Mrs Ashburnham again.  Her face was perfectly clear, sharp and defined; her hair was glorious in its golden coils.  Her nostrils twitched with a sort of contempt.  She appeared to look with interest at a gypsy caravan that was coming over a little bridge far below us.

“Don’t you know,” she said, in her clear hard voice, “don’t you know that I’m an Irish Catholic?”

V those words gave me the greatest relief that I have ever had in my life.  They told me, I think, almost more than I have ever gathered at any one moment—­about myself.  I don’t think that before that day I had ever wanted anything very much except Florence.  I have, of course, had appetites, impatiences . . .  Why, sometimes at a table d’hôte, when there would be, say, caviare handed round, I have been absolutely full of impatience for fear that when the dish came to me there should not be a satisfying portion left over by the other guests.  I have been exceedingly impatient at missing trains.  The Belgian State Railway has a trick of letting the French trains miss their connections at Brussels.  That has always infuriated me.  I have written about it letters to The Times that The Times never printed; those that I wrote to the Paris edition of the New York Herald were always printed, but they never seemed to satisfy me when I saw them.  Well, that was a sort of frenzy with me.

It was a frenzy that now I can hardly realize.  I can understand it intellectually.  You see, in those days I was interested in people with “hearts.”  There was Florence, there was Edward Ashburnham—­or, perhaps, it was Leonora that I was more interested in.  I don’t mean in the way of love.  But, you see, we were both of the. same profession—­at any rate as I saw it.  And the profession was that of keeping heart patients alive.

You have no idea how engrossing such a profession may become.  Just as the blacksmith says:  “By hammer and hand all Art doth stand,” just as the baker thinks that all the solar system revolves around his morning delivery of rolls, as the postmaster-general believes that he alone is the preserver of society—­and surely, surely, these delusions are necessary to keep us going—­so did I and, as I believed, Leonora, imagine that the whole world ought to be arranged so as to ensure the keeping alive of heart patients.  You have no idea how engrossing such a profession may become—­how imbecile, in view of that engrossment, appear the ways of princes, of republics, of municipalities.  A rough bit of road beneath the motor tyres, a couple of succeeding “thank’ee-marms” with their quick jolts would be enough to set me grumbling to Leonora against the Prince or the Grand Duke or the Free City through whose territory we might be passing.  I would grumble like a stockbroker whose conversations over the telephone are incommoded by the ringing of bells from a city church.  I would talk about medieval survivals, about the taxes being surely high enough.  The point, by the way, about the missing of the connections of the Calais boat trains at Brussels was that the shortest possible sea journey is frequently of great importance to sufferers from the heart.  Now, on the Continent, there are two special heart cure places, Nauheim and Spa, and to reach both of these baths from England if in order to ensure a short sea passage, you come by Calais—­you have to make the connection at Brussels.  And the Belgian train never waits by so much the shade of a second for the one coming from Calais or from Paris.  And even if the French train, are just on time, you have to run—­imagine a heart patient running! —­along the unfamiliar ways of the Brussels station and to scramble up the high steps of the moving train.  Or, if you miss connection, you have to wait five or six hours. . . .  I used to keep awake whole nights cursing that abuse.  My wife used to run—­she never, in whatever else she may have misled me, tried to give me the impression that she was not a gallant soul.  But, once in the German Express, she would lean back, with one hand to her side and her eyes closed.  Well, she was a good actress.  And I would be in hell.  In hell, I tell you.  For in Florence I had at once a wife and an unattained mistress—­that is what it comes to—­and in the retaining of her in this world I had my occupation, my career, my ambition.  It is not often that these things are united in one body.  Leonora was a good actress too.  By Jove she was good!  I tell you, she would listen to me by the hour, evolving my plans for a shock-proof world.  It is true that, at times, I used to notice about her an air of inattention as if she were listening, a mother, to the child at her knee, or as if, precisely, I were myself the patient.

You understand that there was nothing the matter with Edward Ashburnham’s heart—­that he had thrown up his commission and had left India and come half the world over in order to follow a woman who had really had a “heart” to Nauheim.  That was the sort of sentimental ass he was.  For, you understand, too, that they really needed to live in India, to economize, to let the house at Branshaw Teleragh.

Of course, at that date, I had never heard of the Kilsyte case.  Ashburnham had, you know, kissed a servant girl in a railway train, and it was only the grace of God, the prompt functioning of the communication cord and the ready sympathy of what I believe you call the Hampshire Bench, that kept the poor devil out of Winchester Gaol for years and years.  I never heard of that case until the final stages of Leonora’s revelations. . . .

But just think of that poor wretch. . . .  I, who have surely the right, beg you to think of that poor wretch.  Is it possible that such a luckless devil should be so tormented by blind and inscrutable destiny?  For there is no other way to think of it.  None.  I have the right to say it, since for years he was my wife’s lover, since he killed her, since he broke up all the pleasantnesses that there were in my life.  There is no priest that has the right to tell me that I must not ask pity for him, from you, silent listener beyond the hearth-stone, from the world, or from the God who created in him those desires, those madnesses. . . .

Of course, I should not hear of the Kilsyte case.  I knew none of their friends; they were for me just good people—­fortunate people with broad and sunny acres in a southern county.  Just good people!  By heavens, I sometimes think that it would have been better for him, poor dear, if the case had been such a one that I must needs have heard of it—­such a one as maids and couriers and other Kur guests whisper about for years after, until gradually it dies away in the pity that there is knocking about here and there in the world.  Supposing he had spent his seven years in Winchester Gaol or whatever it is that inscrutable and blind justice allots to you for following your natural but ill-timed inclinations—­there would have arrived a stage when nodding gossips on the Kursaal terrace would have said, “Poor fellow,” thinking of his ruined career.  He would have been the fine soldier with his back now bent. . . .  Better for him, poor devil, if his back had been prematurely bent.

Why, it would have been a thousand times better. . . .  For, of course, the Kilsyte case, which came at the very beginning of his finding Leonora cold and unsympathetic, gave him a nasty jar.  He left servants alone after that.

It turned him, naturally, all the more loose amongst women of his own class.  Why, Leonora told me that Mrs Maidan—­the woman he followed from Burma to Nauheim—­assured her he awakened her attention by swearing that when he kissed the servant in the train he was driven to it.  I daresay he was driven to it, by the mad passion to find an ultimately satisfying woman.  I daresay he was sincere enough.  Heaven help me, I daresay he was sincere enough in his love for Mrs Maidan.  She was a nice little thing, a dear little dark woman with long lashes, of whom Florence grew quite fond.  She had a lisp and a happy smile.  We saw plenty of her for the first month of our acquaintance, then she died, quite quietly—­of heart trouble.

But you know, poor little Mrs Maidan—­she was so gentle, so young.  She cannot have been more than twenty-three and she had a boy husband out in Chitral not more than twenty-four, I believe.  Such young things ought to have been left alone.  Of course Ashburnham could not leave her alone.  I do not believe that he could.  Why, even I, at this distance of time am aware that I am a little in love with her memory.  I can’t help smiling when I think suddenly of her—­as you might at the thought of something wrapped carefully away in lavender, in some drawer, in some old house that you have long left.  She was so—­so submissive.  Why, even to me she had the air of being submissive—­to me that not the youngest child will ever pay heed to.  Yes, this is the saddest story . . .

No, I cannot help wishing that Florence had left her alone—­with her playing with adultery.  I suppose it was; though she was such a child that one has the impression that she would hardly have known how to spell such a word.  No, it was just submissiveness—­to the importunities, to the tempestuous forces that pushed that miserable fellow on to ruin.  And I do not suppose that Florence really made much difference.  If it had not been for her that Ashburnham left his allegiance for Mrs Maidan, then it would have been some other woman.  But still, I do not know.  Perhaps the poor young thing would have died—­she was bound to die, anyhow, quite soon—­but she would have died without having to soak her noonday pillow with tears whilst Florence, below the window, talked to Captain Ashburnham about the Constitution of the United States. . . .  Yes, it would have left a better taste in the mouth if Florence had let her die in peace. . . .

Leonora behaved better in a sense.  She just boxed Mrs Maidan’s ears—­yes, she hit her, in an uncontrollable access of rage, a hard blow on the side of the cheek, in the corridor of the hotel, outside Edward’s rooms.  It was that, you know, that accounted for the sudden, odd intimacy that sprang up between Florence and Mrs Ashburnham.  Because it was, of course, an odd intimacy.  If you look at it from the outside nothing could have been more unlikely than that Leonora, who is the proudest creature on God’s earth, would have struck up an acquaintanceship with two casual Yankees whom she could not really have regarded as being much more than a carpet beneath her feet.  You may ask what she had to be proud of.  Well, she was a Powys married to an Ashburnham—­I suppose that gave her the right to despise casual Americans as long as she did it unostentatiously.  I don’t know what anyone has to be proud of.  She might have taken pride in her patience, in her keeping her husband out of the bankruptcy court.  Perhaps she did.

At any rate that was how Florence got to know her.  She came round a screen at the corner of the hotel corridor and found Leonora with the gold key that hung from her wrist caught in Mrs Maidan’s hair just before dinner.  There was not a single word spoken.  Little Mrs Maidan was very pale, with a red mark down her left cheek, and the key would not come out of her black hair.  It was Florence who had to disentangle it, for Leonora was in such a state that she could not have brought herself to touch Mrs Maidan without growing sick.

And there was not a word spoken.  You see, under those four eyes—­her own and Mrs Maidan’s—­Leonora could just let herself go as far as to box Mrs Maidan’s ears.  But the moment a stranger came along she pulled herself wonderfully up.  She was at first silent and then, the moment the key was disengaged by Florence she was in a state to say:  “So awkward of me . . .  I was just trying to put the comb straight in Mrs Maidan’s hair. . . .”

Mrs Maidan, however, was not a Powys married to an Ashburnham; she was a poor little O’Flaherty whose husband was a boy of country parsonage origin.  So there was no mistaking the sob she let go as she went desolately away along the corridor.  But Leonora was still going to play up.  She opened the door of Ashburnham’s room quite ostentatiously, so that Florence should hear her address Edward in terms of intimacy and liking.  “Edward,” she called.  But there was no Edward there.

You understand that there was no Edward there.  It was then, for the only time of her career, that Leonora really compromised herself—­She exclaimed . . .  “How frightful! . . .  Poor little Maisie! . . .”

She caught herself up at that, but of course it was too late.  It was a queer sort of affair. . . .

I want to do Leonora every justice.  I love her very dearly for one thing and in this matter, which was certainly the ruin of my small household cockle-shell, she certainly tripped up.  I do not believe—­and Leonora herself does not believe—­that poor little Maisie Maidan was ever Edward’s mistress.  Her heart was really so bad that she would have succumbed to anything like an impassioned embrace.  That is the plain English of it, and I suppose plain English is best.  She was really what the other two, for reasons of their own, just pretended to be.  Queer, isn’t it?  Like one of those sinister jokes that Providence plays upon one.  Add to this that I do not suppose that Leonora would much have minded, at any other moment, if Mrs Maidan had been her husband’s mistress.  It might have been a relief from Edward’s sentimental gurglings over the lady and from the lady’s submissive acceptance of those sounds.  No, she would not have minded.

But, in boxing Mrs Maidan’s ears, Leonora was just striking the face of an intolerable universe.  For, that afternoon she had had a frightfully painful scene with Edward.

As far as his letters went, she claimed the right to open them when she chose.  She arrogated to herself the right because Edward’s affairs were in such a frightful state and he lied so about them that she claimed the privilege of having his secrets at her disposal.  There was not, indeed, any other way, for the poor fool was too ashamed of his lapses ever to make a clean breast of anything.  She had to drag these things out of him.

It must have been a pretty elevating job for her.  But that afternoon, Edward being on his bed for the hour and a half prescribed by the Kur authorities, she had opened a letter that she took to come from a Colonel Hervey.  They were going to stay with him in Linlithgowshire for the month of September and she did not know whether the date fixed would be the eleventh or the eighteenth.  The address on this letter was, in handwriting, as like Colonel Hervey’s as one blade of corn is like another.  So she had at the moment no idea of spying on him.

But she certainly was.  For she discovered that Edward Ashburnham was paying a blackmailer of whom she had never heard something like three hundred pounds a year . . .  It was a devil of a blow; it was like death; for she imagined that by that time she had really got to the bottom of her husband’s liabilities.  You see, they were pretty heavy.  What had really smashed them up had been a perfectly common-place affair at Monte Carlo—­an affair with a cosmopolitan harpy who passed for the mistress of a Russian Grand Duke.  She exacted a twenty thousand pound pearl tiara from him as the price of her favours for a week or so.  It would have pipped him a good deal to have found so much, and he was not in the ordinary way a gambler.  He might, indeed, just have found the twenty thousand and the not slight charges of a week at an hotel with the fair creature.  He must have been worth at that date five hundred thousand dollars and a little over.  Well, he must needs go to the tables and lose forty thousand pounds. . . .  Forty thousand solid pounds, borrowed from sharks!  And even after that he must—­it was an imperative passion—­enjoy the favours of the lady.  He got them, of course, when it was a matter of solid bargaining, for far less than twenty thousand, as he might, no doubt, have done from the first.  I daresay ten thousand dollars covered the bill.  Anyhow, there was a pretty solid hole in a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds or so.  And Leonora had to fix things up; he would have run from money-lender to money-lender.  And that was quite in the early days of her discovery of his infidelities—­if you like to call them infidelities.  And she discovered that one from public sources.  God knows what would have happened if she had not discovered it from public sources.  I suppose he would have concealed it from her until they were penniless.  But she was able, by the grace of God, to get hold of the actual lenders of the money, to learn the exact sums that were needed.  And she went off to England.

Yes, she went right off to England to her attorney and his while he was still in the arms of his Circe—­at Antibes, to which place they had retired.  He got sick of the lady quite quickly, but not before Leonora had had such lessons in the art of business from her attorney that she had her plan as clearly drawn up as was ever that of General Trochu for keeping the Prussians out of Paris in 1870.  It was about as effectual at first, or it seemed so.

That would have been, you know, in 1895, about nine years before the date of which I am talking—­the date of Florence’s getting her hold over Leonora; for that was what it amounted to. . . .  Well, Mrs Ashburnham had simply forced Edward to settle all his property upon her.  She could force him to do anything; in his clumsy, good-natured, inarticulate way he was as frightened of her as of the devil.  And he admired her enormously, and he was as fond of her as any man could be of any woman.  She took advantage of it to treat him as if he had been a person whose estates are being managed by the Court of Bankruptcy.  I suppose it was the best thing for him.

Anyhow, she had no end of a job for the first three years or so.  Unexpected liabilities kept on cropping up—­and that afflicted fool did not make it any easier.  You see, along with the passion of the chase went a frame of mind that made him be extraordinarily ashamed of himself.  You may not believe it, but he really had such a sort of respect for the chastity of Leonora’s imagination that he hated—­he was positively revolted at the thought that she should know that the sort of thing that he did existed in the world.  So he would stick out in an agitated way against the accusation of ever having done anything.  He wanted to preserve the virginity of his wife’s thoughts.  He told me that himself during the long walks we had at the last—­while the girl was on the way to Brindisi.

So, of course, for those three years or so, Leonora had many agitations.  And it was then that they really quarrelled.

Yes, they quarrelled bitterly.  That seems rather extravagant.  You might have thought that Leonora would be just calmly loathing and he lachrymosely contrite.  But that was not it a bit . . .  Along with Edward’s passions and his shame for them went the violent conviction of the duties of his station—­a conviction that was quite unreasonably expensive.  I trust I have not, in talking of his liabilities, given the impression that poor Edward was a promiscuous libertine.  He was not; he was a sentimentalist.  The servant girl in the Kilsyte case had been pretty, but mournful of appearance.  I think that, when he had kissed her, he had desired rather to comfort her.  And, if she had succumbed to his blandishments I daresay he would have set her up in a little house in Portsmouth or Winchester and would have been faithful to her for four or five years.  He was quite capable of that.

No, the only two of his affairs of the heart that cost him money were that of the Grand Duke’s mistress and that which was the subject of the blackmailing letter that Leonora opened.  That had been a quite passionate affair with quite a nice woman.  It had succeeded the one with the Grand Ducal lady.  The lady was the wife of a brother officer and Leonora had known all about the passion, which had been quite a real passion and had lasted for several years.  You see, poor Edward’s passions were quite logical in their progression upwards.  They began with a servant, went on to a courtesan and then to a quite nice woman, very unsuitably mated.  For she had a quite nasty husband who, by means of letters and things, went on blackmailing poor Edward to the tune of three or four hundred a year—­with threats of the Divorce Court.  And after this lady came Maisie Maidan, and after poor Maisie only one more affair and then—­the real passion of his life.  His marriage with Leonora had been arranged by his parents and, though he always admired her immensely, he had hardly ever pretended to be much more than tender to her, though he desperately needed her moral support, too. . . .

But his really trying liabilities were mostly in the nature of generosities proper to his station.  He was, according to Leonora, always remitting his tenants’ rents and giving the tenants to understand that the reduction would be permanent; he was always redeeming drunkards who came before his magisterial bench; he was always trying to put prostitutes into respectable places—­and he was a perfect maniac about children.  I don’t know how many ill-used people he did not pick up and provide with careers—­Leonora has told me, but I daresay she exaggerated and the figure seems so preposterous that I will not put it down.  All these things, and the continuance of them seemed to him to be his duty—­along with impossible subscriptions to hospitals and Boy Scouts and to provide prizes at cattle shows and antivivisection societies. . . .

Well, Leonora saw to it that most of these things were not continued.  They could not possibly keep up Branshaw Manor at that rate after the money had gone to the Grand Duke’s mistress.  She put the rents back at their old figures; discharged the drunkards from their homes, and sent all the societies notice that they were to expect no more subscriptions.  To the children, she was more tender; nearly all of them she supported till the age of apprenticeship or domestic service.  You see, she was childless herself.

She was childless herself, and she considered herself to be to blame.  She had come of a penniless branch of the Powys family, and they had forced upon her poor dear Edward without making the stipulation that the children should be brought up as Catholics.  And that, of course, was spiritual death to Leonora.  I have given you a wrong impression if I have not made you see that Leonora was a woman of a strong, cold conscience, like all English Catholics. (I cannot, myself, help disliking this religion; there is always, at the bottom of my mind, in spite of Leonora, the feeling of shuddering at the Scarlet Woman, that filtered in upon me in the tranquility of the little old Friends’ Meeting House in Arch Street, Philadelphia.) So I do set down a good deal of Leonora’s mismanagement of poor dear Edward’s case to the peculiarly English form of her religion.  Because, of course, the only thing to have done for Edward would have been to let him sink down until he became a tramp of gentlemanly address, having, maybe, chance love affairs upon the highways.  He would have done so much less harm; he would have been much less agonized too.  At any rate, he would have had fewer chances of ruining and of remorse.  For Edward was great at remorse.  But Leonora’s English Catholic conscience, her rigid principles, her coldness, even her very patience, were, I cannot help thinking, all wrong in this special case.  She quite seriously and naïvely imagined that the Church of Rome disapproves of divorce; she quite seriously and naïvely believed that her church could be such a monstrous and imbecile institution as to expect her to take on the impossible job of making Edward Ashburnham a faithful husband.  She had, as the English would say, the Nonconformist temperament.  In the United States of North America we call it the New England conscience.  For, of course, that frame of mind has been driven in on the English Catholics.  The centuries that they have gone through—­centuries of blind and malignant oppression, of ostracism from public employment, of being, as it were, a small beleagured garrison in a hostile country, and therefore having to act with great formality—­all these things have combined to perform that conjuring trick.  And I suppose that Papists in England are even technically Nonconformists.

Continental Papists are a dirty, jovial and unscrupulous crew.  But that, at least, lets them be opportunists.  They would have fixed poor dear Edward up all right. (Forgive my writing of these monstrous things in this frivolous manner.  If I did not I should break down and cry.) In Milan, say, or in Paris, Leonora would have had her marriage dissolved in six months for two hundred dollars paid in the right quarter.  And Edward would have drifted about until he became a tramp of the kind I have suggested.  Or he would have married a barmaid who would have made him such frightful scenes in public places and would so have torn out his moustache and left visible signs upon his face that he would have been faithful to her for the rest of his days.  That was what he wanted to redeem him. . . .

For, along with his passions and his shames there went the dread of scenes in public places, of outcry, of excited physical violence; of publicity, in short.  Yes, the barmaid would have cured him.  And it would have been all the better if she drank; he would have been kept busy looking after her.

I know that I am right in this.  I know it because of the Kilsyte case.  You see, the servant girl that he then kissed was nurse in the family of the Nonconformist head of the county—­whatever that post may be called.  And that gentleman was so determined to ruin Edward, who was the chairman of the Tory caucus, or whatever it is—­that the poor dear sufferer had the very devil of a time.  They asked questions about it in the House of Commons; they tried to get the Hampshire magistrates degraded; they suggested to the War Ministry that Edward was not the proper person to hold the King’s commission.  Yes, he got it hot and strong.

The result you have heard.  He was completely cured of philandering amongst the lower classes.  And that seemed a real blessing to Leonora.  It did not revolt her so much to be connected—­it is a sort of connection—­with people like Mrs Maidan, instead of with a little kitchenmaid.

In a dim sort of way, Leonora was almost contented when she arrived at Nauheim, that evening. . . .

She had got things nearly straight by the long years of scraping in little stations in Chitral and Burma—­stations where living is cheap in comparison with the life of a county magnate, and where, moreover, liaisons of one sort or another are normal and inexpensive too.  So that, when Mrs Maidan came along—­and the Maidan affair might have caused trouble out there because of the youth of the husband—­Leonora had just resigned herself to coming home.  With pushing and scraping and with letting Branshaw Teleragh, and with selling a picture and a relic of Charles I or so. had got—­and, poor dear, she had never had a really decent dress to her back in all those years and years—­she had got, as she imagined, her poor dear husband back into much the same financial position as had been his before the mistress of the Grand Duke had happened along.  And, of course, Edward himself had helped her a little on the financial side.  He was a fellow that many men liked.  He was so presentable and quite ready to lend you his cigar puncher—­that sort of thing.  So, every now and then some financier whom he met about would give him a good, sound, profitable tip.  And Leonora was never afraid of a bit of a gamble—­English Papists seldom are, I do not know why.

So nearly all her investment turned up trumps, and Edward was really in fit case to reopen Branshaw Manor and once more to assume his position in the county.  Thus Leonora had accepted Maisie Maidan almost with resignation—­almost with a sigh of relief.  She really liked the poor child—­she had to like somebody.  And, at any rate, she felt she could trust Maisie—­she could trust her not to rook Edward for several thousands a week, for Maisie had refused to accept so much as a trinket ring from him.  It is true that Edward gurgled and raved about the girl in a way that she had never yet experienced.  But that, too, was almost a relief.  I think she would really have welcomed it if he could have come across the love of his life.  It would have given her a rest.

And there could not have been anyone better than poor little Mrs Maidan; she was so ill she could not want to be taken on expensive jaunts. . . .  It was Leonora herself who paid Maisie’s expenses to Nauheim.  She handed over the money to the boy husband, for Maisie would never have allowed it; but the husband was in agonies of fear.  Poor devil!

I fancy that, on the voyage from India, Leonora was as happy as ever she had been in her life.  Edward was wrapped up, completely, in his girl—­he was almost like a father with a child, trotting about with rugs and physic and things, from deck to deck.  He behaved, however, with great circumspection, so that nothing leaked through to the other passengers.  And Leonora had almost attained to the attitude of a mother towards Mrs Maidan.  So it had looked very well—­the benevolent, wealthy couple of good people, acting as saviours to the poor, dark-eyed, dying young thing.  And that attitude of Leonora’s towards Mrs Maidan no doubt partly accounted for the smack in the face.  She was hitting a naughty child who had been stealing chocolates at an inopportune moment.  It was certainly an inopportune moment.  For, with the opening of that blackmailing letter from that injured brother officer, all the old terrors had redescended upon Leonora.  Her road had again seemed to stretch out endless; she imagined that there might be hundreds and hundreds of such things that Edward was concealing from her—­that they might necessitate more mortgagings, more pawnings of bracelets, more and always more horrors.  She had spent an excruciating afternoon.  The matter was one of a divorce case, of course, and she wanted to avoid publicity as much as Edward did, so that she saw the necessity of continuing the payments.  And she did not so much mind that.  They could find three hundred a year.  But it was the horror of there being more such obligations.

She had had no conversation with Edward for many years—­none that went beyond the mere arrangements for taking trains or engaging servants.  But that afternoon she had to let him have it.  And he had been just the same as ever.  It was like opening a book after a decade to find the words the same.  He had the same motives.  He had not wished to tell her about the case because he had not wished her to sully her mind with the idea that there was such a thing as a brother officer who could be a blackmailer—­and he had wanted to protect the credit of his old light of love.  That lady was certainly not concerned with her husband.  And he swore, and swore, and swore, that there was nothing else in the world against him.  She did not believe him.

He had done it once too often—­and she was wrong for the first time, so that he acted a rather creditable part in the matter.  For he went right straight out to the post-office and spent several hours in coding a telegram to his solicitor, bidding that hard-headed man to threaten to take out at once a warrant against the fellow who was on his track.  He said afterwards that it was a bit too thick on poor old Leonora to be ballyragged any more.  That was really the last of his outstanding accounts, and he was ready to take his personal chance of the Divorce Court if the blackmailer turned nasty.  He would face it out—­the publicity, the papers, the whole bally show.  Those were his simple words. . . .

He had made, however, the mistake of not telling Leonora where he was going, so that, having seen him go to his room to fetch the code for the telegram, and seeing, two hours later, Maisie Maidan come out of his room, Leonora imagined that the two hours she had spent in silent agony Edward had spent with Maisie Maidan in his arms.  That seemed to her to be too much.  As a matter of fact, Maisie’s being in Edward’s room had been the result, partly of poverty, partly of pride, partly of sheer innocence.  She could not, in the first place, afford a maid; she refrained as much as possible from sending the hotel servants on errands, since every penny was of importance to her, and she feared to have to pay high tips at the end of her stay.  Edward had lent her one of his fascinating cases contaiing fifteen different sizes of scisssors, and, having seen from her window, his departure for the post-office, she had taken the opportunity of returning the case.  She could not see why she should not, though she felt a certain remorse at the thought that she had kissed the pillows of his bed.  That was the way it took her.

But Leonora could see that, without the shadow of a doubt, the incident gave Florence a hold over her.  It let Florence into things and Florence was the only created being who had any idea that the Ashburnhams were not just good people with nothing to their tails.  She determined at once, not so much to give Florence the privilege of her intimacy—­which would have been the payment of a kind of blackmail—­as to keep Florence under observation until she could have demonstrated to Florence that she was not in the least jealous of poor Maisie.  So that was why she had entered the dining-room arm in arm with my wife, and why she had so markedly planted herself at our table.  She never left us, indeed, for a minute that night, except just to run up to Mrs Maidan’s room to beg her pardon and to beg her also to let Edward take her very markedly out into the gardens that night.  She said herself, when Mrs Maidan came rather wistfully down into the lounge where we were all sitting:  “Now, Edward, get up and take Maisie to the Casino.  I want Mrs Dowell to tell me all about the families in Connecticut who came from Fordingbridge.”  For it had been discovered that Florence came of a line that had actually owned Branshaw Teleragh for two centuries before the Ashburnhams came there.  And there she sat with me in that hall, long after Florence had gone to bed, so that I might witness her gay reception of that pair.  She could play up.

And that enables me to fix exactly the day of our going to the town of M——.  For it was the very day poor Mrs Maidan died.  We found her dead when we got back—­pretty awful, that, when you come to figure out what it all means. . . .

At any rate the measure of my relief when Leonora said that she was an Irish Catholic gives you the measure of my affection for that couple.  It was an affection so intense that even to this day I cannot think of Edward without sighing.  I do not believe that I could have gone on any more with them.  I was getting too tired.  And I verily believe, too, if my suspicion that Leonora was jealous of Florence had been the reason she gave for her outburst I should have turned upon Florence with the maddest kind of rage.  Jealousy would have been incurable.  But Florence’s mere silly jibes at the Irish and at the Catholics could be apologized out of existence.  And that I appeared to fix up in two minutes or so.

She looked at me for a long time rather fixedly and queerly while I was doing it.  And at last I worked myself up to saying: 

“Do accept the situation.  I confess that I do not like your religion.  But I like you so intensely.  I don’t mind saying that I have never had anyone to be really fond of, and I do not believe that anyone has ever been fond of me, as I believe you really to be.”

“Oh, I’m fond enough of you,” she said.  “Fond enough to say that I wish every man was like you.  But there are others to be considered.”  She was thinking, as a matter of fact, of poor Maisie.  She picked a little piece of pellitory out of the breast-high wall in front of us.  She chafed it for a long minute between her finger and thumb, then she threw it over the coping.

“Oh, I accept the situation,” she said at last, “if you can.”

VI I remember laughing at the phrase, “accept the situation”, which she seemed to repeat with a gravity too intense.  I said to her something like: 

“It’s hardly as much as that.  I mean, that I must claim the liberty of a free American citizen to think what I please about your co-religionists.  And I suppose that Florence must have liberty to think what she pleases and to say what politeness allows her to say.”

“She had better,” Leonora answered, “not say one single word against my people or my faith.”  It struck me at the time, that there was an unusual, an almost threatening, hardness in her voice.  It was almost as if she were trying to convey to Florence, through me, that she would seriously harm my wife if Florence went to something that was an extreme.  Yes, I remember thinking at the time that it was almost as if Leonora were saying, through me to Florence: 

“You may outrage me as you will; you may take all that I personally possess, but do not you care to say one single thing in view of the situation that that will set up—­against the faith that makes me become the doormat for your feet.”

But obviously, as I saw it, that could not be her meaning.  Good people, be they ever so diverse in creed, do not threaten each other.  So that I read Leonora’s words to mean just no more than:  “It would be better if Florence said nothing at all against my co-religionists, because it is a point that I am touchy about.”

That was the hint that, accordingly, I conveyed to Florence when, shortly afterwards, she and Edward came down from the tower.  And I want you to understand that, from that moment until after Edward and the girl and Florence were all dead together, I had never the remotest glimpse, not the shadow of a suspicion, that there was anything wrong, as the saying is.  For five minutes, then, I entertained the possibility that Leonora might be jealous; but there was never another flicker in that flame-like personality.  How in the world should I get it?

For, all that time, I was just a male sick nurse.  And what chance had I against those three hardened gamblers, who were all in league to conceal their hands from me?  What earthly chance?  They were three to one—­and they made me happy.  Oh God, they made me so happy that I doubt if even paradise, that shall smooth out all temporal wrongs, shall ever give me the like.  And what could they have done better, or what could they have done that could have been worse?  I don’t know. . . .

I suppose that, during all that time I was a deceived husband and that Leonora was pimping for Edward.  That was the cross that she had to take up during her long Calvary of a life. . . .

You ask how it feels to be a deceived husband.  Just Heavens, I do not know.  It feels just nothing at all.  It is not Hell, certainly it is not necessarily Heaven.  So I suppose it is the intermediate stage.  What do they call it?  Limbo.  No, I feel nothing at all about that.  They are dead; they have gone before their Judge who, I hope, will open to them the springs of His compassion.  It is not my business to think about it.  It is simply my business to say, as Leonora’s people say:  “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Do mine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.  In memoria aeterna erit. . . .”  But what were they?  The just?  The unjust?  God knows!  I think that the pair of them were only poor wretches, creeping over this earth in the shadow of an eternal wrath.  It is very terrible. . . .

It is almost too terrible, the picture of that judgement, as it appears to me sometimes, at nights.  It is probably the suggestion of some picture that I have seen somewhere.  But upon an immense plain, suspended in mid-air, I seem to see three figures, two of them clasped close in an intense embrace, and one intolerably solitary. lt is in black and white, my picture of that judgement, an etching, perhaps; only I cannot tell an etching from a photographic reproduction.  And the immense plain is the hand of God, stretching out for miles and miles, with great spaces above it and below it.  And they are in the sight of God, and it is Florence that is alone. . . .  And, do you know, at the thought of that intense solitude I feel an overwhelming desire to rush forward and comfort her.  You cannot, you see, have acted as nurse to a person for twelve years without wishing to go on nursing them, even though you hate them with the hatred of the adder, and even in the palm of God.  But, in the nights, with that vision of judgement before me, I know that I hold myself back.  For I hate Florence.  I hate Florence with such a hatred that I would not spare her an eternity of loneliness.  She need not have done what she did.  She was an American, a New Englander.  She had not the hot passions of these Europeans.  She cut out that poor imbecile of an Edward—­and I pray God that he is really at peace, clasped close in the arms of that poor, poor girl!  And, no doubt, Maisie Maidan will find her young husband again, and Leonora will burn, clear and serene, a northern light and one of the archangels of God.  And me. . . .  Well, perhaps, they will find me an elevator to run. . . .  But Florence. . . .

She should not have done it.  She should not have done it.  It was playing it too low down.  She cut out poor dear Edward from sheer vanity; she meddled between him and Leonora from a sheer, imbecile spirit of district visiting.  Do you understand that, whilst she was Edward’s mistress, she was perpetually trying to reunite him to his wife?  She would gabble on to Leonora about forgiveness—­treating the subject from the bright, American point of view.  And Leonora would treat her like the whore she was.  Once she said to Florence in the early morning: 

“You come to me straight out of his bed to tell me that that is my proper place.  I know it, thank you.”

But even that could not stop Florence.  She went on saying that it was her ambition to leave this world a little brighter by the passage of her brief life, and how thankfully she would leave Edward, whom she thought she had brought to a right frame of mind, if Leonora would only give him a chance.  He needed, she said, tenderness beyond anything.

And Leonora would answer—­for she put up with this outrage for years—­Leonora, as I understand, would answer something like: 

“Yes, you would give him up.  And you would go on writing to each other in secret, and committing adultery in hired rooms.  I know the pair of you, you know.  No.  I prefer the situation as it is.”  Half the time Florence would ignore Leonora’s remarks.  She would think they were not quite ladylike.  The other half of the time she would try to persuade Leonora that her love for Edward was quite spiritual—­on account of her heart.  Once she said: 

“If you can believe that of Maisie Maidan, as you say you do, why cannot you believe it of me?” Leonora was, I understand, doing her hair at that time in front of the mirror in her bedroom.  And she looked round at Florence, to whom she did not usually vouchsafe a glance,—­she looked round coolly and calmly, and said: 

“Never do you dare to mention Mrs Maidan’s name again.  You murdered her.  You and I murdered her between us.  I am as much a scoundrel as you.  I don’t like to be reminded of it.”

Florence went off at once into a babble of how could she have hurt a person whom she hardly knew, a person whom with the best intentions, in pursuance of her efforts to leave the world a little brighter, she had tried to save from Edward.  That was how she figured it out to herself.  She really thought that. . . .  So Leonora said patiently: 

“Very well, just put it that I killed her and that it’s a painful subject.  One does not like to think that one had killed someone.  Naturally not.  I ought never to have brought her from India.”  And that, indeed, is exactly how Leonora looked at it.  It is stated a little baldly, but Leonora was always a great one for bald statements.

What had happened on the day of our jaunt to the ancient city of M——­ had been this: 

Leonora, who had been even then filled with pity and contrition for the poor child, on returning to our hotel had gone straight to Mrs Maidan’s room.  She had wanted just to pet her.  And she had perceived at first only, on the clear, round table covered with red velvet, a letter addressed to her.  It ran something like: 

“Oh, Mrs Ashburnham, how could you have done it?  I trusted you so.  You never talked to me about me and Edward, but I trusted you.  How could you buy me from my husband?  I have just heard how you have—­in the hall they were talking about it, Edward and the American lady.  You paid the money for me to come here.  Oh, how could you?  How could you?  I am going straight back to Bunny. . . .”  Bunny was Mrs Maidan’s husband.

And Leonora said that, as she went on reading the letter, she had, without looking round her, a sense that that hotel room was cleared, that there were no papers on the table, that there were no clothes on the hooks, and that there was a strained silence—­a silence, she said, as if there were something in the room that drank up such sounds as there were.  She had to fight against that feeling, whilst she read the postscript of the letter.

“I did not know you wanted me for an adulteress,” the postscript began.  The poor child was hardly literate.  “It was surely not right of you and I never wanted to be one.  And I heard Edward call me a poor little rat to the American lady.  He always called me a little rat in private, and I did not mind.  But, if he called me it to her, I think he does not love me any more.  Oh, Mrs Ashburnham, you knew the world and I knew nothing.  I thought it would be all right if you thought it could, and I thought you would not have brought me if you did not, too.  You should not have done it, and we out of the same convent. . . .”

Leonora said that she screamed when she read that.

And then she saw that Maisie’s boxes were all packed, and she began a search for Mrs Maidan herself—­all over the hotel.  The manager said that Mrs Maidan had paid her bill, and had gone up to the station to ask the Reiseverkehrsbureau to make her out a plan for her immediate return to Chitral.  He imagined that he had seen her come back, but he was not quite certain.  No one in the large hotel had bothered his head about the child.  And she, wandering solitarily in the hall, had no doubt sat down beside a screen that had Edward and Florence on the other side.  I never heard then or after what had passed between that precious couple.  I fancy Florence was just about beginning her cutting out of poor dear Edward by addressing to him some words of friendly warning as to the ravages he might be making in the girl’s heart.  That would be the sort of way she would begin.  And Edward would have sentimentally assured her that there was nothing in it; that Maisie was just a poor little rat whose passage to Nauheim his wife had paid out of her own pocket.  That would have been enough to do the trick.

For the trick was pretty efficiently done.  Leonora, with panic growing and with contrition very large in her heart, visited every one of the public rooms of the hotel—­the dining-room, the lounge, the schreibzimmer, the winter garden.  God knows what they wanted with a winter garden in an hotel that is only open from May till October.  But there it was.  And then Leonora ran—­yes, she ran up the stairs—­to see if Maisie had not returned to her rooms.  She had determined to take that child right away from that hideous place.  It seemed to her to be all unspeakable.  I do not mean to say that she was not quite cool about it.  Leonora was always Leonora.  But the cold justice of the thing demanded that she should play the part of mother to this child who had come from the same convent.  She figured it out to amount to that.  She would leave Edward to Florence and to me—­and she would devote all her time to providing that child with an atmosphere of love until she could be returned to her poor young husband.  It was naturally too late.

She had not cared to look round Maisie’s rooms at first.  Now, as soon as she came in, she perceived, sticking out beyond the bed, a small pair of feet in high-heeled shoes.  Maisie had died in the effort to strap up a great portmanteau.  She had died so grotesquely that her little body had fallen forward into the trunk, and it had closed upon her, like the jaws of a gigantic alligator.  The key was in her hand.  Her dark hair, like the hair of a Japanese, had come down and covered her body and her face.

Leonora lifted her up—­she was the merest featherweight—­and laid her on the bed with her hair about her.  She was smiling, as if she had just scored a goal in a hockey match.  You understand she had not committed suicide.  Her heart had just stopped.  I saw her, with the long lashes on the cheeks, with the smile about the lips, with the flowers all about her.  The stem of a white lily rested in her hand so that the spike of flowers was upon her shoulder.  She looked like a bride in the sunlight of the mortuary candles that were all about her, and the white coifs of the two nuns that knelt at her feet with their faces hidden might have been two swans that were to bear her away to kissing-kindness land, or wherever it is.  Leonora showed her to me.  She would not let either of the others see her.  She wanted, you know, to spare poor dear Edward’s feelings.  He never could bear the sight of a corpse.  And, since she never gave him an idea that Maisie had written to her, he imagined that the death had been the most natural thing in the world.  He soon got over it.  Indeed, it was the one affair of his about which he never felt much remorse.