That end, on that night, whilst Leonora sat
in the girl's bedroom and Edward telephoned down below--that
end was plainly manifest. The girl, plainly, was half-mad already;
Edward was half dead; only Leonora, active, persistent, instinct
with her cold passion of energy, was "doing things". What then,
should they have done? worked out in the extinction of two very
splendid personalities--for Edward and the girl were splendid
personalities, in order that a third personality, more normal,
should have, after a long period of trouble, a quiet, comfortable,
good time.
I am writing this, now, I should say, a full eighteen months after
the words that end my last chapter. Since writing the words "until
my arrival", which I see end that paragraph, I have seen again for
a glimpse, from a swift train, Beaucaire with the beautiful white
tower, Tarascon with the square castle, the great Rhone, the
immense stretches of the Crau. I have rushed through all
Provence--and all Provence no longer matters. It is no longer in
the olive hills that I shall find my Heaven; because there is only
Hell. . . .
Edward is dead; the girl is gone--oh, utterly gone; Leonora is
having a good time with Rodney Bayham, and I sit alone in
Branshaw Teleragh.
Pages:
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321