CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I walked along, got to my club and upstairs into my room peaceably. Afeeling of entire tranquillity had come over me. I rested after a strifewhich had issued in a victory whose meaning was too great to comprehendand enjoy at once. I only knew that it was great because there seemednothing more left to do. Everything reposed within me--even conscience,even memory, reposed as in death. I had risen above them, and mythoughts moved serenely as in a new light, as men move in sunshine abovethe graves of the forgotten dead. I felt like a man at the beginning ofa long holiday--an indefinite space of idleness with some greatfelicity--a felicity too great for words, too great for joy--at the end.Everything was delicious and vague; there were no shapes, no persons.Names flitted through my mind--Fox, Churchill, my aunt; but they wereliving people seen from above, flitting in the dusk, withoutindividuality; things that moved below me in a valley from which I hademerged. I must have been dreaming of them.
I know I dreamed of her. She alone was distinct among these shapes. Sheappeared dazzling; resplendent with a splendid calmness, and I bracedmyself to the shock of love, the love I had known, that all men hadknown; but greater, transcendental, almost terrible, a fit reward forthe sacrifice of a whole past. Suddenly she spoke. I heard a sound likethe rustling of a wind through trees, and I felt the shock of an unknownemotion made up of fear and of enthusiasm, as though she had been not awoman but only a voice crying strange, unknown words in inspiring tones,promising and cruel, without any passion of love or hate. I listened. Itwas like the wind in the trees of a little wood. No hate ... no love. Nolove. There was a crash as of a falling temple. I was borne to theearth, overwhelmed, crushed by an immensity of ruin and of sorrow. Iopened my eyes and saw the sun shining through the window-blinds.
I seem to remember I was surprised at it. I don't know why. Perhaps thelingering effect of the ruin in the dream, which had involved sunshineitself. I liked it though, and lay for a time enjoying the--what shall Isay?--usualness of it. The sunshine of yesterday--of to-morrow. Itoccurred to me that the morning must be far advanced, and I got upbriskly, as a man rises to his work. But as soon as I got on my legs Ifelt as if I had already over-worked myself. In reality there wasnothing to do. All my muscles twitched with fatigue. I had experiencedthe same sensations once after an hour's desperate swimming to savemyself from being carried out to sea by the tide.
No. There was nothing to do. I descended the staircase, and an uttersense of aimlessness drove me out through the big doors, which swungbehind me without noise. I turned toward the river, and on the broadembankment the sunshine enveloped me, friendly, familiar, and warm likethe care of an old friend. A black dumb barge drifted, clumsy and empty,and the solitary man in it wrestled with the heavy sweep, straining hisarms, throwing his face up to the sky at every effort. He knew what hewas doing, though it was the river that did his work for him.
His exertions impressed me with the idea that I too had something todo. Certainly I had. One always has. Somehow I could not remember. Itwas intolerable, and even alarming, this blank, this emptiness of themany hours before night came again, till suddenly, it dawned upon me Ihad to make some extracts in the British Museum for our "_Cromwell_."Our Cromwell. There was no Cromwell; he had lived, had worked for thefuture--and now he had ceased to exist. His future--our past, had cometo an end. The barge with the man still straining at the oar had goneout of sight under the arch of the bridge, as through a gate intoanother world. A bizarre sense of solitude stole upon me, and I turnedmy back upon the river as empty as my day. Hansoms, broughams, streamedwith a continuous muffled roll of wheels and a beat of hoofs. A big drayput in a note of thunder and a clank of chains. I found myself curiouslyunable to understand what possible purpose remained to keep them inmotion. The past that had made them had come to an end, and their futurehad been devoured by a new conception. And what of Churchill? He, too,had worked for the future; he would live on, but he had already ceasedto exist. I had evoked him in this poignant thought and he came notalone. He came with a train of all the vanquished in this stealthy,unseen contest for an immense stake in which I was one of the victors.They crowded upon me. I saw Fox, Polehampton, de Mersch himself, crowdsof figures without a name, women with whom I had fancied myself in love,men I had shaken by the hand, Lea's reproachful, ironical face. Theywere near; near enough to touch; nearer. I did not only see them, Iabsolutely felt them all. Their tumultuous and silent stir seemed toraise a tumult in my breast.
I sprang suddenly to my feet--a sensation that I had had before, thatwas not new to me, a remembered fear, had me fast; a remembered voiceseemed to speak clearly incomprehensible words that had moved me before.The sheer faces of the enormous buildings near at hand seemed to toppleforwards like cliffs in an earthquake, and for an instant I saw beyondthem into unknown depths that I had seen into before. It was as if theshadow of annihilation had passed over them beneath the sunshine. Thenthey returned to rest; motionless, but with a changed aspect.
"This is too absurd," I said to myself. "I am not well." I was certainlyunfit for any sort of work. "But I must get through the day somehow."To-morrow ... to-morrow.... I had a pale vision of her face as it hadappeared to me at sunset on the first day I had met her.
I went back to my club--to lunch, of course. I had no appetite, but Iwas tormented by the idea of an interminable afternoon before me. I satidly for a long time. Behind my back two men were talking.
"Churchill ... oh, no better than the rest. He only wants to be foundout. If I've any nose for that sort of thing, there's something in theair. It's absurd to be told that he knew nothing about it.... You'veseen the _Hour?_" I got up to go away, but suddenly found myselfstanding by their table.
"You are unjust," I said. They looked up at me together with an immensesurprise. I didn't know them and I passed on. But I heard one of themask:
"Who's that fellow?" ...
"Oh--Etchingham Granger...."
"Is he queer?" the other postulated.
I went slowly down the great staircase. A knot of men was huddled roundthe tape machine; others came, half trotting, half walking, to peer overheads, under arm-pits.
"What's the matter with that thing?" I asked of one of them.
"Oh, Grogram's up," he said, and passed me. Someone from a point ofvantage read out:
"The Leader of the House (Sir C. Grogram, Devonport) said that...." Thewords came haltingly to my ears as the man's voice followed the jerks ofthe little instrument "... the Government obviously could not ... alterits policy at ... eleventh hour ... at dictates of ... quiteirresponsible person in one of ... the daily ... papers."
I was wondering whether it was Soane or Callan who was poor oldGrogram's "quite irresponsible person," when I caught the sound ofGurnard's name. I turned irritably away. I didn't want to hear that foolread out the words of that.... It was like the warning croak of a ravenin an old ballad.
I began desultorily to descend to the smoking-room. In the Cimmeriangloom of the stairway the voice of a pursuer hailed me.
"I say, Granger! I say, Granger!"
I looked back. The man was one of the rats of the lower journalism,large-boned, rubicund, asthmatic; a mass of flesh that might, to theadvantage of his country and himself, have served as a cavalry trooper.He puffed stertorously down towards me.
"I say, I say," his breath came rattling and wheezing. "What's up at the_Hour?_"
"I'm sure I don't know," I answered curtly.
"They said you took it yesterday. You've been playing the very devil,haven't you? But I suppose it was not off your own bat?"
"Oh, I never play off my own bat," I answered.
"Of course I don't want to intrude," he said again. In the gloom I wasbeginning to discern the workings of the tortured apoplectic face. "But,I say, what's de Mersch's little game?"
"You'd better ask him," I answered. It was incredibly hateful, thissatyr's mask in the dim light.
"He's not in London," it answered, with a wink of the creased eyelids,"but
, I suppose, now, Fox and de Mersch haven't had a row, now, havethey?"
I did not answer. The thing was wearily hateful, and this was only thebeginning. Hundreds more would be asking the same question in a fewminutes.
The head wagged on the mountainous shoulders.
"Looks fishy," he said. I recognised that, to force words from me, hewas threatening a kind of blackmail. Another voice began to call fromthe top of the stairs--
"I say, Granger! I say, Granger...."
I pushed the folding-doors apart and went slowly down the gloomy room. Iheard the doors swing again, and footsteps patter on the matting behindme. I did not turn; the man came round me and looked at my face. It wasPolehampton. There were tears in his eyes.
"I say," he said, "I say, what does it mean; _what_ does it mean?" Itwas very difficult for me to look at him. "I tell you...." he beganagain. He had the dictatorial air of a very small, quite hopeless man,a man mystified by a blow of unknown provenance. "I tell you...." hebegan again.
"But what has it to do with me?" I said roughly.
"Oh, but _you_ ... you advised me to buy." He had become supplicatory."Didn't you, now?... Didn't you.... You said, you remember ... that...."I didn't answer the man. What had I got to say? He remained lookingintently at me, as if it were of the greatest moment to him that Ishould make the acknowledgment and share the blame--as if it would takean immense load from his shoulders. I couldn't do it; I hated him.
"Didn't you," he began categorically; "didn't you advise me to buy thosedebentures of de Mersch's?" I did not answer.
"What does it all mean?" he said again. "If this bill doesn't getthrough, I tell you I shall be ruined. And they say that Mr. Gurnard isgoing to smash it. They are all saying it, up there; and that you--youon the _Hour_ ... are ... are responsible." He took out a handkerchiefand began to blow his nose. I didn't say a single word.
"But what's to be done?" he started again; "what's to be _done_.... Itell you.... My daughter, you know, she's very brave, she said to methis morning she could work; but she couldn't, you know; she's not beenbrought up to that sort of thing ... not even typewriting ... and so ...we're all ruined ... everyone of us. And I've more than fifty hands,counting Mr. Lea, and they'll all have to go. It's horrible.... Itrusted you, Granger, you know; I trusted you, and they say up therethat you...." I turned away from him. I couldn't bear to see thebewildered fear in his eyes. "So many of us," he began again, "everyoneI know.... I told them to buy and ... But you might have let us know,Granger, you might have. Think of my poor daughter."
I wanted to say something to the man, wanted to horribly; but therewasn't anything to say--not a word. I was sorry. I took up a paper thatsprawled on one of the purple ottomans. I stood with my back to thishaggard man and pretended to read.
I noticed incredulously that I was swaying on my legs. I looked roundme. Two old men were asleep in armchairs under the gloomy windows. Onehad his head thrown back, the other was crumpled forward into himself;his frail, white hand just touched the floor. A little further off twoyoung men were talking; they had the air of conspirators over theirempty coffee cups.
I was conscious that Polehampton had left me, that he had gone frombehind me; but I don't think I was conscious of the passage of time. Godknows how long I stood there. Now and then I saw Polehampton's facebefore my eyes, with the panic-stricken eyes, the ruffled hair, thelines of tears seaming the cheeks, seeming to look out at me from thecrumple of the paper that I held. I knew too, that there were faces likethat everywhere; everywhere, faces of panic-stricken little people of nomore account than the dead in graveyards, just the material to makegraveyards, nothing more; little people of absolutely no use but just tosuffer horribly from this blow coming upon them from nowhere. It hadnever occurred to me at the time that their inheritance had passed to me... to us. And yet, I began to wonder stupidly, what was the differencebetween me to-day and me yesterday. There wasn't any, not any at all.Only to-day I had nothing more to do.
The doors at the end of the room flew open, as if burst by a greatoutcry penetrating from without, and a man appeared running up theroom--one of those men who bear news eternally, who catch the distantclamour and carry it into quiet streets. Why did he disturb me? Did Iwant to hear his news? I wanted to think of Churchill; to think of howto explain.... The man was running up the room.
"I say ... I say, you beggars...."
I was beginning to wonder how it was that I felt such an absoluteconviction of being alone, and it was then, I believe, that in thissolitude that had descended upon my soul I seemed to see the shape of anapproaching Nemesis. It is permitted to no man to break with his past,with the past of his kind, and to throw away the treasure of his future.I began to suspect I had gained nothing; I began to understand that evensuch a catastrophe was possible. I sat down in the nearest chair. Thenmy fear passed away. The room was filling; it hummed with excitedvoices. "Churchill! No better than the others," I heard somebody saying.Two men had stopped talking. They were middle-aged, a little gray, andruddy. The face of one was angry, and of the other sad. "He wanted onlyto be found out. What a fall in the mud." "No matter," said the other,"one is made a little sad. He stood for everything I had been pinning myfaith to." They passed on. A brazen voice bellowed in the distance. "Thegreatest fall of any minister that ever was." A tall, heavy journalistin a white waistcoat was the centre of a group that turned slowly uponitself, gathering bulk. "Done for--stood up to the last. I saw him getinto his brougham. The police had a job.... There's quite a riot downthere.... Pale as a ghost. Gurnard? Gurnard magnificent. Very cool andin his best form. Threw them over without as much as a wink. Outragedconscience speech. Magnificent. Why it's the chance of his life." ...And then for a time the voices and the faces seemed to pass away and dieout. I had dropped my paper, and as I stooped to pick it up the voicesreturned.
--"Granger ... Etchingham Granger.... Sister is going to marryGurnard."
I got on to my hands and knees to pick up the paper, of course. What Idid not understand was where the water came from. Otherwise it waspretty clear. Somebody seemed to be in a fit. No, he wasn't drunk; lookat his teeth. What did they want to look at his teeth for; was he ahorse?
* * * * *
It must have been I that was in the fit. There were a lot of men roundme, the front row on their knees--holding me, some of them. A man in ared coat and plush breeches--a waiter--was holding a glass of water;another had a small bottle. They were talking about me under theirbreaths. At one end of the horseshoe someone said:
"He's the man who...." Then he caught my eye. He lowered his voice, andthe abominable whisper ran round among the heads. It was easy to guess:"the man who was got at." I was to be that for the rest of my life. Iwas to be famous at last. There came the desire to be out of it.
I struggled to my feet.
Someone said: "Feel better now?" I answered: "I--oh, I've got to go andsee...."
It was rather difficult to speak distinctly; my tongue got in the way.But I strove to impress the fool with the idea that I had affairs thatmust be attended to--that I had private affairs.
"You aren't fit. Let me...."
I pushed him roughly aside--what business was it of his? I slunk hastilyout of the room. The others remained. I knew what they were going todo--to talk things over, to gabble about "the man who...."
It was treacherous walking, that tessellated pavement in the hall.Someone said: "Hullo, Granger," as I passed. I took no notice.
Where did I wish to go to? There was no one who could minister to me;the whole world had resolved itself into a vast solitary city of closeddoors. I had no friend--no one. But I must go somewhere, must hidesomewhere, must speak to someone. I mumbled the address of Fox to acabman. Some idea of expiation must have been in my mind; some idea ofseeing the thing through, mingled with that necessity for talking tosomeone--anyone.
I was afraid too; not of Fox's rage; not even of anything that he coulddo--but of the sight of his despair. He
had become a tragic figure.
I reached his flat and I had said: "It is I," and again, "It is I," andhe had not stirred. He was lying on the sofa under a rug, motionless asa corpse. I had paced up and down the room. I remember that the pile ofthe carpet was so long that it was impossible to walk upon it easily.Everything else in the room was conceived in an exuberance of luxurythat now had something of the macabre in it. It was that now--before, ithad been unclean. There was a great bed whose lines suggested sinkingsoftness, a glaring yellow satin coverlet, vast, like a sea. The wallswere covered with yellow satin, the windows draped with lace worth aking's ransom, the light was softened, the air dead, the sounds hungslumbrously. And, in the centre of it, that motionless body. It stirred,pivoted on some central axis beneath the rug, and faced me sitting.There was no look of inquiry in the bloodshot eyes--they turned dullyupon me, topaz-coloured in a blood-red setting. There was no expressionin the suffused face.
"You want?" he said, in a voice that was august by dint of hopelessness.
"I want to explain," I said. I had no idea that this was what I had comefor.
He answered only: "You!" He had the air of one speaking to somethinginfinitely unimportant. It was as if I had no inkling of the real issue.
With a bravery of desperation I began to explain that I hadn't stumbledinto the thing; that I had acted open-eyed; for my own ends ... "My ownends." I repeated it several times. I wanted him to understand, and Idid explain. I kept nothing from him; neither her coming, nor her words,nor my feelings. I had gone in with my eyes open.
For the first time Fox looked at me as if I were a sentient being. "Oh,you know that much," he said listlessly.
"It's no disgrace to have gone under to her," I said; "we _had_ to." Hisdespair seemed to link him into one "we" with myself. I wanted to putheart into him. I don't know why.
He didn't look at me again.
"Oh, _that_," he said dully, "I--I understand who you mean.... If I hadknown before I might have done something. But she came of a higherplane." He seemed to be talking to himself. The half-forgotten horrorgrew large; I remembered that she had said that Fox, like herself, wasone of a race apart, that was to supersede us--Dimensionists. And, whenI looked at him now, it was plain to me that he _was_ of a racedifferent to my own, just as he had always seemed different from anyother man. He had had a different tone in triumph; he was different now,in his despair. He went on: "I might have managed Gurnard alone, but Inever thought of her coming. You see one does one's best, but, somehow,here one grows rather blind. I ought to have stuck to Gurnard, ofcourse; never to have broken with him. We ought all to have kepttogether.--But I kept my end up as long as he was alone."
He went on talking in an expressionless monotone, perhaps to himself,perhaps to me. I listened as one listens to unmeaning sounds--to that ofa distant train at night. He was looking at the floor, his mouth movingmechanically. He sat perfectly square, one hand on either knee, his backbowed out, his head drooping forward. It was as if there were no moremuscular force in the whole man--as if he were one of those ancientthings one sees sunning themselves on benches by the walls ofworkhouses.
"But," I said angrily, "it's not all over, you can make a fight for itstill."
"You don't seem to understand," he answered, "it _is_ all over--thewhole thing. I ran Churchill and his conscious rectitude gang for allthey were worth.... Well, I liked them, I was a fool to give way topity.--But I did.--One grows weak among people like you. Of course Iknew that their day was over.... And it's all _over_," he said againafter a long pause.
"And what will you _do_?" I asked, half hysterically.
"I don't just know," he answered; "we've none of us gone under before.There haven't been enough really to clash until she came."
The dead tranquillity of his manner was overwhelming; there was nothingto be said. I was in the presence of a man who was not as I was, whosestandard of values, absolute to himself, was not to be measured by anyof mine.
"I suppose I shall cut my throat," he began again.
I noticed with impersonal astonishment that the length of my right sidewas covered with the dust of a floor. In my restless motions I cameopposite the fireplace. Above it hung a number of tiny, jewelled frames,containing daubs of an astonishing lewdness. The riddle grew painful.What kind of a being could conceive this impossibly barbaric room, couldenshrine those impossibly crude designs, and then fold his hands? Iturned fiercely upon him. "But you are rich enough to enjoy life," Isaid.
"What's that?" he asked wearily.
"In the name of God," I shouted, "what do you work for--what have youbeen plotting and plotting for, if not to enjoy your life at the last?"He made a small indefinite motion of ignorance, as if I had propoundedto him a problem that he could not solve, that he did not think worththe solving.
It came to me as the confirmation of a suspicion--that motion. They hadno joy, these people who were to supersede us; their clear-sightednessdid nothing more for them than just that enabling them to spreaddesolation among us and take our places. It had been in her manner allalong, she was like Fate; like the abominable Fate that desolates thewhole length of our lives; that leaves of our hopes, of our plans,nothing but a hideous jumble of fragments like those of statues, smashedby hammers; the senseless, inscrutable, joyless Fate that we hate, andthat debases us forever and ever. She had been all that to me ... and tohow many more?
"I used to be a decent personality," I vociferated at him. "Do youhear--decent. I could look a man in the face. And you cannot even enjoy.What do you come for? What do you live for? What is at the end of itall?"
"Ah, if I knew ..." he answered, negligently.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I wanted to see her, to finish it one way or another, and, at my aunt'shouse, I found her standing in an immense white room; waiting for me.There was a profusion of light. It left her absolutely shadowless, likea white statue in a gallery; inscrutable.
"I have come," I said. I had it in my mind to say: "Because there isnothing for me to do on earth." But I did not, I looked at her instead.
"You have come," she repeated. She had no expression in her voice, inher eyes. It was as if I were nothing to her; as if I were the pictureof a man. Well, that was it; I was a picture, she a statue. "I did it,"I said at last.
"And you want?" she asked.
"You know," I answered, "I want my...." I could not think of the word.It was either a reward or a just due. She looked at me, quite suddenly.It made an effect as if the Venus of Milo had turned its head towardme. She began to speak, as if the statue were speaking, as if a passingbell were speaking; recording a passing passionlessly.
"You have done nothing at all," she said. "Nothing."
"And yet," I said, "I was at the heart of it all."
"Nothing at all," she repeated. "You were at the heart, yes; but at theheart of a machine." Her words carried a sort of strong conviction. Iseemed suddenly to see an immense machine--unconcerned, soulless, butall its parts made up of bodies of men: a great mill grinding out thedust of centuries; a great wine-press. She was continuing her speech.
"As for you--you are only a detail, like all the others; you were set ina place because you would act as you did. It was in your character. Weinherit the earth and you, your day is over.... You remember that day,when I found you--the first day?"
I remembered that day. It was on the downland, under the immense sky,amid the sound of larks. She had explained the nature of things. Shehad talked expressionlessly in pregnant words; she was talking now. Iknew no more of her to-day, after all these days, after I had given upto her my past and my future.
"You remember that day. I was looking for such a man, and I found you."
"And you ..." I said, "you have done this thing! Think of it!... I havenobody--nothing--nowhere in the world. I cannot look a man in the face,not even Churchill. I can never go to him again." I paused, expecting asign of softening. None came. "I have parted with my past and you tellme there is no future."
"None," she echoed. Then, coldly, as a swan takes the water, she beganto speak:
"Well, yes! I've hurt you. You have suffered and in your pain you thinkme vile, but remember that for ages the virtue of to-morrow has been thevileness of to-day. That which outstrips one, one calls vile. My virtuelies in gaining my end. Pity for you would have been a crime for me. Youhave suffered. And then? What are you to me? As I came among you I amto-day; that is where I am triumphant and virtuous. I have succeeded.When I came here I came into a world of--of shadows of men. What weretheir passions, their joys, their fears, their despair, their outcry, tome? If I had ears, my virtue was to close them to the cries. There wasno other way. There was one of us--your friend Fox, I mean. He came intothe world, but had not the virtue to hold himself aloof. He has toldyou, 'One goes blind down here.' He began to feel a little like thepeople round him. He contracted likings and dislikings. He liked you ...and you betrayed him. So he went under. He grew blind down here. I havenot grown blind. I see as I saw. I move as I did in a world of ... ofthe pictures of men. They despair. I hear groans ... well, they are thegroans of the dead to me. This to you, down near it, is a mass oftortuous intrigue; vile in its pettiest detail. But come further off;stand beside me, and what does it look like? It is a mighty engine ofdisintegration. It has crushed out a whole fabric, a whole plane ofsociety. It has done that. I guided it. I had to have my eyes on everylittle strand of it; to be forever on the watch."
"And now I stand alone. Yesterday that fabric was everything to you; itseemed solid enough. And where is it to-day? What is it to you more thanto me? There stood Virtue ... and Probity ... and all the things thatall those people stood for. Well, to-day they are gone; the very beliefin them is gone. Who will believe in them, now that it is proved thattheir tools were people ... like de Mersch? And it was I that did it.That, too, is to be accounted to me for virtue."
"Well, I have inherited the earth. I am the worm at the very heart ofthe rose of it. You are thinking that all that I have gained is the handof Gurnard. But it is more than that. It is a matter of a chess-board;and Gurnard is the only piece that remains. And I am the hand that moveshim. As for a marriage; well, it is a marriage of minds, a union for acommon purpose. But mine is the master mind. As for you. Well, you haveparted with your past ... and there is no future for you. That is true.You have nowhere to go to; have nothing left, nothing in the world. Thatis true too. But what is that to me? A set of facts--that you haveparted with your past and have no future. You had to do the work; I hadto make you do it. I chose you because you would do it. That is all....I knew you; knew your secret places, your weaknesses. That is my power.I stand for the Inevitable, for the future that goes on its way; you forthe past that lies by the roadside. If for your sake I had swerved onejot from my allotted course, I should have been untrue. There was adanger, once, for a minute.... But I stood out against it. What wouldyou have had me do? Go under as Fox went under? Speak like him, look ashe looks now.... Me? Well, I did not."
"I was in the hands of the future; I never swerved; I went on my way. Ihad to judge men as I judged you; to corrupt, as I corrupted you. Icajoled; I bribed; I held out hopes; and with every one, as with you, Isucceeded. It is in that power that the secret of the greatness which isvirtue, lies. I had to set about a work of art, of an art strange toyou; as strange, as alien as the arts of dead peoples. You are the deadnow, mine the art of an ensuing day. All that remains to you is to foldyour hands and wonder, as you wondered before the gates of Nineveh. Ihad to sound the knell of the old order; of your virtues, of yourhonours, of your faiths, of ... of altruism, if you like. Well, it issounded. I was forever on the watch; I foresaw; I forestalled; I havenever rested. And you...."
"And I ..." I said, "I only loved you."
There was a silence. I seemed for a moment to see myself a tenuous,bodiless thing, like a ghost in a bottomless cleft between the past andthe to come. And I was to be that forever.
"You only loved me," she repeated. "Yes, you loved me. But what claimupon me does that give you? You loved me.... Well, if I had loved you itwould have given you a claim.... All your misery; your heartache comesfrom ... from love; your love for me, your love for the things of thepast, for what was doomed.... You loved the others too ... in a way, andyou betrayed them and you are wretched. If you had not loved them youwould not be wretched now; if you had not loved me you would not havebetrayed your--your very self. At the first you stood alone; as muchalone as I. All these people were nothing to you. I was nothing to you.But you must needs love them and me. You should have let them remainnothing to the end. But you did not. What were they to you?--Shapes,shadows on a sheet. They looked real. But were they--any one of them?You will never see them again; you will never see me again; we shall beall parts of a past of shadows. If you had been as I am, you could havelooked back upon them unmoved or could have forgotten.... But you ...'you only loved' and you will have no more ease. And, even now, it isonly yourself that matters. It is because you broke; because you werefalse to your standards at a supreme moment; because you have discoveredthat your honour will not help you to stand a strain. It is not thethought of the harm you have done the others.... What are they--what isChurchill who has fallen or Fox who is dead--to you now? It is yourselfthat you bemoan. That is your tragedy, that you can never go again toChurchill with the old look in your eyes, that you can never go toanyone for fear of contempt.... Oh, I know you, I know you."
She knew me. It was true, what she said.
I had had my eyes on the ground all this while; now I looked at her,trying to realise that I should never see her again. It was impossible.There was that intense beauty, that shadowlessness that was liketranslucence. And there was her voice. It was impossible to understandthat I was never to see her again, never to hear her voice, after this.
She was silent for a long time and I said nothing--nothing at all. Itwas the thought of her making Fox's end; of her sitting as Fox had sat,hopelessly, lifelessly, like a man waiting at the end of the world. Atlast she said: "There is no hope. We have to go our ways; you yours, Imine. And then if you will--if you cannot forget--you may remember thatI cared; that, for a moment, in between two breaths, I thought of ... offailing. That is all I can do ... for your sake."
That silenced me. Even if I could have spoken to any purpose, I wouldhave held my tongue now.
I had not looked at her; but stood with my eyes averted, very consciousof her standing before me; of her great beauty, of her great glory.
* * * * *
After a long time I went away. I never saw her again. I never saw anyone of them all again. Fox was dead and Churchill I have never had theheart to face. That was the end of all that part of my life. It passedaway and left me only a consciousness of weakness and ... and regrets.She remains. One recognises her hand in the trend of events. Well, it isnot a very gay world. Gurnard, they say, is the type of the age--of itsspirit. And they say that I, the Granger of Etchingham, am not on termswith my brother-in-law.
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