“But that was ended.”
“Ended there, but not here.”
“Ended for ever. We’ve done with it for ever.”
“We haven’t. We’ve got to begin again. And go on. And go on.”
“Oh, no. No. Anything but that.”
“There isn’t anything else.”
“We can’t. We can’t. Don’t you remember how it bored us?”
“Remember? Do you suppose I’d touch you if I could help it? … That’s what we’re here for. We must. We must.”
“No. No. I shall get away—now.”
She turned to the door to open it.
“You can’t,” he said. “The door’s locked.”
“Oscar—what did you do that for?”
“We always did it. Don’t you remember?”
She turned to the door again and shook it; she beat on it with her hands.
“It’s no use, Harriott. If you got out now you’d only have to come back again. You might stave it off for an hour or so, but what’s that in an immortality?”
“Immortality?”
“That’s what we’re in for.”
“Time enough to talk about immortality when we’re dead. … Ah—”
… moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance …
They were being drawn towards each other across the room, moving slowly, like figures in some monstrous and appalling dance, their heads thrown back over their shoulders, their faces turned from the horrible approach. Their arms rose slowly, heavy with intolerable reluctance; they stretched them out towards each other, aching, as if they held up an overpowering weight. Their feet dragged and were drawn.
Suddenly her knees sank under her; she shut her eyes; all her being went down before him in darkness and terror.
It was over. She had got away, she was going back, back, to the green drive of the Park, between the beech trees, where Oscar had never been, where he would never find her. When she passed through the south gate her memory became suddenly young and clean. She forgot the rue de Rivoli and the Hotel Saint Pierre; she forgot Schnebler’s Restaurant and the room at the top of the stairs. She was back in her youth. She was Harriott Leigh going to wait for Stephen Philpotts in the pavilion opposite the west gate. She could feel herself, a slender figure moving fast over the grass between the lines of the great beech trees. The freshness of her youth was upon her.
She came to the heart of the drive where it branched right and left in the form of a cross. At the end of the right arm the white Greek temple, with its pediment and pillars, gleamed against the wood.
She was sitting on their seat at the back of the pavilion, watching the side door that Stephen would come in by.
The door was pushed open; he came towards her, light and young, skimming between the beech trees with his eager, tiptoeing stride. She rose up to meet him. She gave a cry.
“Stephen!”
It had been Stephen. She had seen him coming. But the man who stood before her between the pillars of the pavilion was Oscar Wade.
And now she was walking along the field-path that slanted from the orchard door to the stile; further and further back, to where young George Waring waited for her under the elder tree. The smell of the elder flowers came to her over the field. She could feel on her lips and in all her body the sweet, innocent excitement of her youth.
“George, oh, George!”
As she went along the field-path she had seen him. But the man who stood waiting for her under the elder tree was Oscar Wade.
“I told you it’s no use getting away, Harriott. Every path brings you back to me. You’ll find me at every turn.”
“But how did you get here?”
“As I got into the pavilion. As I got into your father’s room, on to his death-bed. Because I was there. I am in all your memories.”
“My memories are innocent. How could you take my father’s place, and Stephen’s, and George Waring’s? You?”
“Because I did take them.”
“Never. My love for them was innocent.”
“Your love for me was part of it. You think the past affects the future. Has it never struck you that the future may affect the past? In your innocence there was the beginning of your sin. You were what you were to be.”
“I shall get away,” she said.
“And, this time, I shall go with you.”
The stile, the elder tree, and the field floated away from her. She was going under the beech trees down the Park drive towards the south gate and the village, slinking close to the right-hand row of trees. She was aware that Oscar Wade was going with her under the left-hand row, keeping even with her, step by step, and tree by tree. And presently there was grey pavement under her feet and a row of grey pillars on her right hand. They were walking side by side down the rue de Rivoli towards the hotel.
They were sitting together now on the edge of the dingy white bed. Their arms hung by their sides, heavy and limp, their heads drooped, averted. Their passion weighed on them with the unbearable, unescapable boredom of immortality.
“Oscar—how long will it last?”
“I can’t tell you. I don’t know whether this is one moment of eternity, or the eternity of one moment.”
“It must end some time,” she said. “Life doesn’t go on for ever. We shall die.”
“Die? We have died. Don’t you know what this is? Don’t you know where you are? This is death. We’re dead, Harriott. We’re in hell.”
“Yes. There can’t be anything worse than this.”
“This isn’t the worst. We’re not quite dead yet, as long as we’ve life in us to turn and run and get away from each other; as long as we can escape into our memories. But when you’ve got back to the farthest memory of all and there’s nothing beyond it—When there’s no memory but this—
“In the last hell we shall not run away any longer; we shall find no more roads, no more passages, no more open doors. We shall have no need to look for each other.
“In the last death we shall be shut up in this room, behind that locked door, together. We shall lie here together, for ever and ever, joined so fast that even God can’t put us asunder. We shall be one flesh and one spirit, one sin repeated for ever, and ever; spirit loathing flesh, flesh loathing spirit; you and I loathing each other.”
“Why? Why?” she cried.
“Because that’s all that’s left us. That’s what you made of love.”
The darkness came down swamping, it blotted out the room. She was walking along a garden path between high borders of phlox and larkspur and lupin. They were taller than she was, their flowers swayed and nodded above her head. She tugged at the tall stems and had no strength to break them. She was a little thing.
She said to herself then that she was safe. She had gone back so far that she was a child again; she had the blank innocence of childhood. To be a child, to go small under the heads of the lupins, to be blank and innocent, without memory, was to be safe.
The