The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford (top 10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

irresolution⁠—have again the control of his income. He came even a step towards her and acknowledged, spontaneously, that she had been right in husbanding, for all those years, their resources. He said to her one day:

“You’ve done right, old girl. There’s nothing I like so much as to have a little to chuck away. And I can do it, thanks to you.”

That was really, she said, the happiest moment of her life. And he, seeming to realize it, had ventured to pat her on the shoulder. He had, ostensibly, come in to borrow a safety-pin of her.

And the occasion of her boxing Maisie’s ears, had, after it was over, riveted in her mind the idea that there was no intrigue between Edward and Mrs. Maidan. She imagined that, from henceforward, all that she had to do was to keep him well supplied with money and his mind amused with pretty girls. She was convinced that he was coming back to her. For that month she no longer repelled his timid advances that never went very far. For he certainly made timid advances. He patted her on the shoulder; he whispered into her ear little jokes about the odd figures that they saw up at the Casino. It was not much to make a little joke⁠—but the whispering of it was a precious intimacy.⁠ ⁠…

And then⁠—smash⁠—it all went. It went to pieces at the moment when Florence laid her hand upon Edward’s wrist, as it lay on the glass sheltering the manuscript of the Protest, up in the high tower with the shutters where the sunlight here and there streamed in. Or, rather, it went when she noticed the look in Edward’s eyes as he gazed back into Florence’s. She knew that look.

She had known⁠—since the first moment of their meeting, since the moment of our all sitting down to dinner together⁠—that Florence was making eyes at Edward. But she had seen so many women make eyes at Edward⁠—hundreds and hundreds of women, in railway trains, in hotels, aboard liners, at street corners. And she had arrived at thinking that Edward took little stock in women that made eyes at him. She had formed what was, at that time, a fairly correct estimate of the methods of, the reasons for, Edward’s loves. She was certain that hitherto they had consisted of the short passion for the Dolciquita, the real sort of love for Mrs. Basil, and what she deemed the pretty courtship of Maisie Maidan. Besides she despised Florence so haughtily that she could not imagine Edward’s being attracted by her. And she and Maisie were a sort of bulwark round him.

She wanted, besides, to keep her eyes on Florence⁠—for Florence knew that she had boxed Maisie’s ears. And Leonora desperately desired that her union with Edward should appear to be flawless. But all that went.⁠ ⁠…

With the answering gaze of Edward into Florence’s blue and uplifted eyes, she knew that it had all gone. She knew that that gaze meant that those two had had long conversations of an intimate kind⁠—about their likes and dislikes, about their natures, about their views of marriage. She knew what it meant that she, when we all four walked out together, had always been with me ten yards ahead of Florence and Edward. She did not imagine that it had gone further than talks about their likes and dislikes, about their natures or about marriage as an institution. But, having watched Edward all her life, she knew that that laying on of hands, that answering of gaze with gaze, meant that the thing was unavoidable. Edward was such a serious person.

She knew that any attempt on her part to separate those two would be to rivet on Edward an irrevocable passion; that, as I have before told you, it was a trick of Edward’s nature to believe that the seducing of a woman gave her an irrevocable hold over him for life. And that touching of hands, she knew, would give that woman an irrevocable claim⁠—to be seduced. And she so despised Florence that she would have preferred it to be a parlourmaid. There are very decent parlourmaids.

And, suddenly, there came into her mind the conviction that Maisie Maidan had a real passion for Edward; that this would break her heart⁠—and that she, Leonora, would be responsible for that. She went, for the moment, mad. She clutched me by the wrist; she dragged me down those stairs and across that whispering Rittersaal with the high painted pillars, the high painted chimneypiece. I guess she did not go mad enough.

She ought to have said:

“Your wife is a harlot who is going to be my husband’s mistress⁠ ⁠…” That might have done the trick. But, even in her madness, she was afraid to go as far as that. She was afraid that, if she did, Edward and Florence would make a bolt of it, and that, if they did that, she would lose forever all chance of getting him back in the end. She acted very badly to me.

Well, she was a tortured soul who put her Church before the interests of a Philadelphia Quaker. That is all right⁠—I daresay the Church of Rome is the more important of the two.

A week after Maisie Maidan’s death she was aware that Florence had become Edward’s mistress. She waited outside Florence’s door and met Edward as he came away. She said nothing and he only grunted. But I guess he had a bad time.

Yes, the mental deterioration that Florence worked in Leonora was extraordinary; it smashed up her whole life and all her chances. It made her, in the first place, hopeless⁠—for she could not see how, after that, Edward could return to her⁠—after a vulgar intrigue with a vulgar woman. His affair with Mrs. Basil, which was now all that she had to bring, in her heart, against him, she could not find it in her to call an intrigue. It was a love affair⁠—a pure enough thing in its way. But this