Asphodel: A Novel
1881
Asphodel, a novel by M. E. Braddon, was first published in 1881 and is set in 19th century England. The story follows the adventurous Daphne as she escapes the confines of her school life in Asnières to explore the forest of Fontainebleau with her companion Martha Dibb. The narrative explores themes of youthful exuberance, social class, and romance, particularly through Daphne's interactions with a mysterious stranger who presents himself as an artist but harbors a deeper identity.
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“She had been told too often of her beauty not to know that she was handsomer than the majority of women. She knew that in mental power she was her lover's equal: by birth, by fortune, by every attribute and quality, she was fitted to be his wife, to rule over his household, and to be a purifying and elevating influence in his life. His mother had loved her as warmly as it was possible for that languid nature to love anything. Their two lives were interwoven by the tenderest associations of the past as well as the solemn engagement that bound them in the present. No, it was not possible for Madoline, seeing all things from the standpoint of her own calm and evenly-balanced mind, to imagine infidelity in a lover so long and so closely bound to her. Those sudden aberrations of the human mind which wreck so many lives, and make men and women a world's wonder, had never come within the range of her experience.””
— M. E. Braddon
“The two young men walked up and down under the walnut trees for nearly an hour, Gerald Goring playing the unaccustomed part of consoler. He liked Edgar Turchill with an honest liking. There was a shade of condescension, of unconscious patronage in the feeling; but it was thoroughly sincere. The Saxon squire was distinctly on a lower intellectual level than the man of mixed race – the man whose father had thrust himself into the front walks of life by sheer force of will and brains, unaided by any conventional training of any kind; whose mother had been the last development of a family reared in courts and palaces. Compared with the quicksilver that flowed in his own veins, Edgar Turchill's blood was a fluid that smacked of the vegetable kingdom – watery stuff that oozes out of a turnip or cabbage when the cook-maid cuts it. Yet the man could feel, and so keenly, that Gerald was touched with tender pity.””
— M. E. Braddon
“Then I'm afraid I must endure your hate," said Gerald. "No; I have never been ashamed of my father: he was the dearest, kindest, most unselfish father that ever spoiled an unworthy son. But I have occasionally felt ashamed of that barrow, when it has exhibited and explained to a new acquaintance, and I have seen that the new acquaintance thought the whole thing – the mock mediaeval Abbey, the barrow and my dear simple-hearted dad one stupendous joke.""I should be more ashamed of Felicia, Countess of Heronville, than of that barrow, if I were you," exclaimed Daphne, flushed and indignant."You little radical! Mistress Felicia was by no means an exemplary person, but she was was one of the loveliest women of Charles's court, where all the lovely women congregated by common consent, while all the ugly ones buried themselves in their husbands' country seats, and thought that some fiery comet must be swooping down upon the world because of wickedness in high places.””
— M. E. Braddon
