It is a thing, with all its accidents, that must be taken for granted, as, in a novel, or a biography, you take it for granted that the characters have their meals with some regularity.
But the real fierceness of desire, the real heat of a passion long continued and withering up the soul of a man is the craving for identity with the woman that he loves.
He desires to see with the same eyes, to touch with the same sense of touch, to hear with the same ears, to lose his identity, to be enveloped, to be supported.
For, whatever may be said of the relation of the sexes, there is no man who loves a woman that does not desire to come to her for the renewal of his courage, for the cutting asunder of his difficulties.
And that will be the mainspring of his desire for her.
We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist.
So, for a time, if such a passion come to fruition, the man will get what he wants.
He will get the moral support, the encouragement, the relief from the sense of loneliness, the assurance of his own worth.
But these things pass away; inevitably they pass away as the shadows pass across sundials.
It is sad, but it is so.
The pages of the book will become familiar; the beautiful corner of the road will have been turned too many times.
Well, this is the saddest story.
And yet I do believe that for every man there comes at last a woman—or no, that is the wrong way of formulating it.
For every man there comes at last a time of life when the woman who then sets her seal upon his imagination has set her seal for good.
He will travel over no more horizons; he will never again set the knapsack over his shoulders; he will retire from those scenes.
He will have gone out of the business.
That at any rate was the case with Edward and the poor girl.
It was quite literally the case.
It was quite literally the case that his passions—for the mistress of the Grand Duke, for Mrs Basil, for little Mrs Maidan, for Florence, for whom you will—these passions were merely preliminary canters compared to his final race with death for her.
I am certain of that.
I am not going to be so American as to say that all true love demands some sacrifice.
It doesn't.
But I think that love will be truer and more permanent in which self-sacrifice has been exacted.
And, in the case of the other women, Edward just cut in and cut them out as he did with the polo-ball from under the nose of Count Baron von Leloffel.
I don't mean to say that he didn't wear himself as thin as a lath in the endeavour to capture the other women; but over her he wore himself to rags and tatters and death—in the effort to leave her alone.
And, in speaking to her on that night, he wasn't, I am convinced, committing a baseness.
It was as if his passion for her hadn't existed; as if the very words that he spoke, without knowing that he spoke them, created the passion as they went along.
Before he spoke, there was nothing; afterwards, it was the integral fact of his life.
Well, I must get back to my story.
And my story was concerning itself with Florence—with Florence, who heard those words from behind the tree.
That of course is only conjecture, but I think the conjecture is pretty well justified.
You have the fact that those two went out, that she followed them almost immediately afterwards through the darkness and, a little later, she came running back to the hotel with that pallid face and the hand clutching her dress over her heart.
It can't have been only Bagshawe.
Her face was contorted with agony before ever her eyes fell upon me or upon him beside me.
But I dare say Bagshawe may have been the determining influence in her suicide.
Leonora says that she had that flask, apparently of nitrate of amyl, but actually of prussic acid, for many years and that she was determined to use it if ever I discovered the nature of her relationship with that fellow Jimmy.
You see, the mainspring of her nature must have been vanity.
There is no reason why it shouldn't have been; I guess it is vanity that makes most of us keep straight, if we do keep straight, in this world.
If it had been merely a matter of Edward's relations with the girl I dare say Florence would have faced it out.
She would no doubt have made him scenes, have threatened him, have appealed to his sense of humour, to his promises.
But Mr Bagshawe and the fact that the date was the 4th of August must have been too much for her superstitious mind.
You see, she had two things that she wanted.
She wanted to be a great lady, installed in Branshaw Teleragh.
She wanted also to retain my respect.
She wanted, that is to say, to retain my respect for as long as she lived with me.
I suppose, if she had persuaded Edward Ashburnham to bolt with her she would have let the whole thing go with a run.
Or perhaps she would have tried to exact from me a new respect for the greatness of her passion on the lines of all for love and the world well lost.
That would be just like Florence.
In all matrimonial associations there is, I believe, one constant factor—a desire to deceive the person with whom one lives as to some weak spot in one's character or in one's career.
For it is intolerable to live constantly with one human being who perceives one's small meannesses.