The Good Soldier

streets with me. How do you know that you are even Colonel Rufford’s daughter?” She did not know what these words meant. She thought of her mother as sleeping beneath the arches whilst the snow fell. That was the impression conveyed to her mind by the words “on the streets.” A Platonic sense of duty gave her the idea that she ought to go to comfort her mother⁠—the mother that bore her, though she hardly knew what the words meant. At the same time she knew that her mother had left her father with another man⁠—therefore she pitied her father, and thought it terrible in herself that she trembled at the sound of her father’s voice. If her mother was that sort of woman it was natural that her father should have had accesses of madness in which he had struck herself to the ground. And the voice of her conscience said to her that her first duty was to her parents. It was in accord with this awakened sense of duty that she undressed with great care and meticulously folded the clothes that she took off. Sometimes, but not very often, she threw them helter-skelter about the room.

And that sense of duty was her prevailing mood when Leonora, tall, clean-run, golden-haired, all in black, appeared in her doorway, and told her that Edward was dying of love for her. She knew then with her conscious mind what she had known within herself for months⁠—that Edward was dying⁠—actually and physically dying⁠—of love for her. It seemed to her that for one short moment her spirit could say: “Domine, nunc dimittis,⁠ ⁠… Lord, now, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.” She imagined that she could cheerfully go away to Glasgow and rescue her fallen mother.

IV

And it seemed to her to be in tune with the mood, with the hour, and with the woman in front of her to say that she knew Edward was dying of love for her and that she was dying of love for Edward. For that fact had suddenly slipped into place and become real for her as the niched marker on a whist tablet slips round with the pressure of your thumb. That rubber at least was made.

And suddenly Leonora seemed to have become different and she seemed to have become different in her attitude towards Leonora. It was as if she, in her frail, white, silken kimono, sat beside her fire, but upon a throne. It was as if Leonora, in her close dress of black lace, with the gleaming white shoulders and the coiled yellow hair that the girl had always considered the most beautiful thing in the world⁠—it was as if Leonora had become pinched, shrivelled, blue with cold, shivering, suppliant. Yet Leonora was commanding her. It was no good commanding her. She was going on the morrow to her mother who was in Glasgow.

Leonora went on saying that she must stay there to save Edward, who was dying of love for her. And, proud and happy in the thought that Edward loved her, and that she loved him, she did not even listen to what Leonora said. It appeared to her that it was Leonora’s business to save her husband’s body; she, Nancy, possessed his soul⁠—a precious thing that she would shield and bear away up in her arms⁠—as if Leonora were a hungry dog, trying to spring up at a lamb that she was carrying. Yes, she felt as if Edward’s love were a precious lamb that she were bearing away from a cruel and predatory beast. For, at that time, Leonora appeared to her as a cruel and predatory beast. Leonora, Leonora with her hunger, with her cruelty had driven Edward to madness. He must be sheltered by his love for her and by her love⁠—her love from a great distance and unspoken, enveloping him, surrounding him, upholding him; by her voice speaking from Glasgow, saying that she loved, that she adored, that she passed no moment without longing, loving, quivering at the thought of him.

Leonora said loudly, insistently, with a bitterly imperative tone:

“You must stay here; you must belong to Edward. I will divorce him.”

The girl answered:

“The Church does not allow of divorce. I cannot belong to your husband. I am going to Glasgow to rescue my mother.”

The half-opened door opened noiselessly to the full. Edward was there. His devouring, doomed eyes were fixed on the girl’s face; his shoulders slouched forward; he was undoubtedly half drunk and he had the whisky decanter in one hand, a slanting candlestick in the other. He said, with a heavy ferocity, to Nancy:

“I forbid you to talk about these things. You are to stay here until I hear from your father. Then you will go to your father.”

The two women, looking at each other, like beasts about to spring, hardly gave a glance to him. He leaned against the doorpost. He said again:

“Nancy, I forbid you to talk about these things. I am the master of this house.” And, at the sound of his voice, heavy, male, coming from a deep chest, in the night with the blackness behind him, Nancy felt as if her spirit bowed before him, with folded hands. She felt that she would go to India, and that she desired never again to talk of these things.

Leonora said:

“You see that it is your duty to belong to him. He must not be allowed to go on drinking.”

Nancy did not answer. Edward was gone; they heard him slipping and shambling on the polished oak of the stairs. Nancy screamed when there came the sound of a heavy fall. Leonora said again:

“You see!”

The sounds went on from the hall below; the light of the candle Edward held flickered up between the hand rails of the gallery. Then they heard his voice:

“Give me Glasgow⁠ ⁠… Glasgow, in Scotland⁠ ⁠… I want the number of a man called White, of Simrock Park, Glasgow⁠ ⁠… Edward White, Simrock Park, Glasgow⁠ ⁠…