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
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
Similar Books
