the United States, had given him a stomach
like a man of forty, and dyspeptic irritation on top of it. God,
how they worked me! It was those two between them who really
elaborated the rules. I have told you something about them—how I
had to head conversations, for all those eleven years, off such
topics as love, poverty, crime, and so on. But, looking over what I
have written, I see that I have unintentionally misled you when I
said that Florence was never out of my sight. Yet that was the
impression that I really had until just now. When I come to think
of it she was out of my sight most of the time.
You see, that fellow impressed upon me that what Florence needed
most of all were sleep and privacy. I must never enter her room
without knocking, or her poor little heart might flutter away to
its doom. He said these things with his lugubrious croak, and his
black eyes like a crow's, so that I seemed to see poor Florence die
ten times a day—a little, pale, frail corpse. Why, I would as soon
have thought of entering her room without her permission as of
burgling a church. I would sooner have committed that crime. I
would certainly have done it if I had thought the state of her
heart demanded the sacrilege. So at ten o'clock at night the door
closed upon Florence, who had gently, and, as if reluctantly,
backed up that fellow's recommendations; and she would wish me good
night as if she were a cinquecento Italian lady saying good-bye to
her lover. And at ten o'clock of the next morning there she would
come out the door of her room as fresh as Venus rising from any of
the couches that are mentioned in Greek legends.
Her room door was locked because she was nervous about thieves;
but an electric contrivance on a cord was understood to be attached
to her little wrist. She had only to press a bulb to raise the
house. And I was provided with an axe—an axe!—great gods, with
which to break down her door in case she ever failed to answer my
knock, after I knocked really loud several times. It was pretty
well thought out, you see.
What wasn't so well thought out were the ultimate
consequences—our being tied to Europe. For that young man rubbed it
so well into me that Florence would die if she crossed the
Channel—he impressed it so fully on my mind that, when later
Florence wanted to go to Fordingbridge, I cut the proposal
short—absolutely short, with a curt no. It fixed her and it
frightened her. I was even backed up by all the doctors. I seemed
to have had endless interviews with doctor after doctor, cool,
quiet men, who would ask, in reasonable tones, whether there was
any reason for our going to England—any special reason. And since I
could not see any special reason, they would give the verdict:
"Better not, then." I daresay they were honest enough, as things
go. They probably imagined that the mere associations of the
steamer might have effects on Florence's nerves. That would be
enough, that and a conscientious desire to keep our money on the
Continent.
It must have rattled poor Florence pretty considerably, for you
see, the main idea—the only main idea of her heart, that was
otherwise cold—was to get to Fordingbridge and be a county lady in
the home of her ancestors. But Jimmy got her, there: he shut on her
the door of the Channel; even on the fairest day of blue sky, with
the cliffs of England shining like mother of pearl in full view of
Calais, I would not have let her cross the steamer gangway to save
her life. I tell you it fixed her.
It fixed her beautifully, because she could not announce herself
as cured, since that would have put an end to the locked bedroom
arrangements. And, by the time she was sick of Jimmy—which happened
in the year 1903—she had taken on Edward Ashburnham. Yes, it was a
bad fix for her, because Edward could have taken her to
Fordingbridge, and, though he could not give her Branshaw Manor,
that home of her ancestors being settled on his wife, she could at
least have pretty
like a man of forty, and dyspeptic irritation on top of it. God,
how they worked me! It was those two between them who really
elaborated the rules. I have told you something about them—how I
had to head conversations, for all those eleven years, off such
topics as love, poverty, crime, and so on. But, looking over what I
have written, I see that I have unintentionally misled you when I
said that Florence was never out of my sight. Yet that was the
impression that I really had until just now. When I come to think
of it she was out of my sight most of the time.
You see, that fellow impressed upon me that what Florence needed
most of all were sleep and privacy. I must never enter her room
without knocking, or her poor little heart might flutter away to
its doom. He said these things with his lugubrious croak, and his
black eyes like a crow's, so that I seemed to see poor Florence die
ten times a day—a little, pale, frail corpse. Why, I would as soon
have thought of entering her room without her permission as of
burgling a church. I would sooner have committed that crime. I
would certainly have done it if I had thought the state of her
heart demanded the sacrilege. So at ten o'clock at night the door
closed upon Florence, who had gently, and, as if reluctantly,
backed up that fellow's recommendations; and she would wish me good
night as if she were a cinquecento Italian lady saying good-bye to
her lover. And at ten o'clock of the next morning there she would
come out the door of her room as fresh as Venus rising from any of
the couches that are mentioned in Greek legends.
Her room door was locked because she was nervous about thieves;
but an electric contrivance on a cord was understood to be attached
to her little wrist. She had only to press a bulb to raise the
house. And I was provided with an axe—an axe!—great gods, with
which to break down her door in case she ever failed to answer my
knock, after I knocked really loud several times. It was pretty
well thought out, you see.
What wasn't so well thought out were the ultimate
consequences—our being tied to Europe. For that young man rubbed it
so well into me that Florence would die if she crossed the
Channel—he impressed it so fully on my mind that, when later
Florence wanted to go to Fordingbridge, I cut the proposal
short—absolutely short, with a curt no. It fixed her and it
frightened her. I was even backed up by all the doctors. I seemed
to have had endless interviews with doctor after doctor, cool,
quiet men, who would ask, in reasonable tones, whether there was
any reason for our going to England—any special reason. And since I
could not see any special reason, they would give the verdict:
"Better not, then." I daresay they were honest enough, as things
go. They probably imagined that the mere associations of the
steamer might have effects on Florence's nerves. That would be
enough, that and a conscientious desire to keep our money on the
Continent.
It must have rattled poor Florence pretty considerably, for you
see, the main idea—the only main idea of her heart, that was
otherwise cold—was to get to Fordingbridge and be a county lady in
the home of her ancestors. But Jimmy got her, there: he shut on her
the door of the Channel; even on the fairest day of blue sky, with
the cliffs of England shining like mother of pearl in full view of
Calais, I would not have let her cross the steamer gangway to save
her life. I tell you it fixed her.
It fixed her beautifully, because she could not announce herself
as cured, since that would have put an end to the locked bedroom
arrangements. And, by the time she was sick of Jimmy—which happened
in the year 1903—she had taken on Edward Ashburnham. Yes, it was a
bad fix for her, because Edward could have taken her to
Fordingbridge, and, though he could not give her Branshaw Manor,
that home of her ancestors being settled on his wife, she could at
least have pretty
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