But I wasn't thinking things over then.
I remember that distinctly.
I was just sitting back, rather stiffly, in a deep arm-chair.
That is what I remember.
It was twilight.
Branshaw Manor lies in a little hollow with lawns across it and pine-woods on the fringe of the dip.
The immense wind, coming from across the forest, roared overhead.
But the view from the window was perfectly quiet and grey.
Not a thing stirred, except a couple of rabbits on the extreme edge of the lawn.
It was Leonora's own little study that we were in and we were waiting for the tea to be brought.
I, as I said, was sitting in the deep chair, Leonora was standing in the window twirling the wooden acorn at the end of the window-blind cord desultorily round and round.
She looked across the lawn and said, as far as I can remember:
"Edward has been dead only ten days and yet there are rabbits on the lawn."
I understand that rabbits do a great deal of harm to the short grass in England.
And then she turned round to me and said without any adornment at all, for I remember her exact words:
"I think it was stupid of Florence to commit suicide."
I cannot tell you the extraordinary sense of leisure that we two seemed to have at that moment.
It wasn't as if we were waiting for a train, it wasn't as if we were waiting for a meal—it was just that there was nothing to wait for.
Nothing.
There was an extreme stillness with the remote and intermittent sound of the wind.
There was the grey light in that brown, small room.
And there appeared to be nothing else in the world.
I knew then that Leonora was about to let me into her full confidence.
It was as if—or no, it was the actual fact that—Leonora with an odd English sense of decency had determined to wait until Edward had been in his grave for a full week before she spoke.
And with some vague motive of giving her an idea of the extent to which she must permit herself to make confidences, I said slowly—and these words too I remember with exactitude—"Did Florence commit suicide?
I didn't know."
I was just, you understand, trying to let her know that, if she were going to speak she would have to talk about a much wider range of things than she had before thought necessary.
So that that was the first knowledge I had that Florence had committed suicide.
It had never entered my head.
You may think that I had been singularly lacking in suspiciousness; you may consider me even to have been an imbecile.
But consider the position.
In such circumstances of clamour, of outcry, of the crash of many people running together, of the professional reticence of such people as hotel-keepers, the traditional reticence of such "good people" as the Ashburnhams—in such circumstances it is some little material object, always, that catches the eye and that appeals to the imagination.
I had no possible guide to the idea of suicide and the sight of the little flask of nitrate of amyl in Florence's hand suggested instantly to my mind the idea of the failure of her heart.
Nitrate of amyl, you understand, is the drug that is given to relieve sufferers from angina pectoris.
Seeing Florence, as I had seen her, running with a white face and with one hand held over her heart, and seeing her, as I immediately afterwards saw her, lying upon her bed with the so familiar little brown flask clenched in her fingers, it was natural enough for my mind to frame the idea.
As happened now and again, I thought, she had gone out without her remedy and, having felt an attack coming on whilst she was in the gardens, she had run in to get the nitrate in order, as quickly as possible, to obtain relief.
And it was equally inevitable my mind should frame the thought that her heart, unable to stand the strain of the running, should have broken in her side.
How could I have known that, during all the years of our married life, that little brown flask had contained, not nitrate of amyl, but prussic acid?
It was inconceivable.
Why, not even Edward Ashburnham, who was, after all more intimate with her than I was, had an inkling of the truth.
He just thought that she had dropped dead of heart disease.
Indeed, I fancy that the only people who ever knew that Florence had committed suicide were Leonora, the Grand Duke, the head of the police and the hotel-keeper.
I mention these last three because my recollection of that night is only the sort of pinkish effulgence from the electric-lamps in the hotel lounge.
There seemed to bob into my consciousness, like floating globes, the faces of those three.
Now it would be the bearded, monarchical, benevolent head of the Grand Duke; then the sharp-featured, brown, cavalry-moustached feature of the chief of police; then the globular, polished and high-collared vacuousness that represented Monsieur Schontz, the proprietor of the hotel.
At times one head would be there alone, at another the spiked helmet of the official would be close to the healthy baldness of the prince; then M. Schontz's oiled locks would push in between the two.
The sovereign's soft, exquisitely trained voice would say,
"Ja, ja, ja!" each word dropping out like so many soft pellets of suet; the subdued rasp of the official would come:
"Zum Befehl Durchlaucht," like five revolver-shots; the voice of M. Schontz would go on and on under its breath like that of an unclean priest reciting from his breviary in the corner of a railway-carriage.
That was how it presented itself to me.