“But then you came,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, but if only I had come at once, while I was comparatively clean.”
“Forget all that,” she said. “Everything is changed now. We have only the future not the past.”
“I am afraid,” he said, “of the past breaking in.”
“Don’t be afraid.” She suddenly pressed her mouth to his with a kind of vehement ferocity. “That is our dedication. If we are very close there will be no room for the past.”
“Don’t tempt it,” he implored.
“You are so superstitious. It is always so with those who don’t believe in God.”
He put up his hands to her face and pulled it down to him. “How sane and even you are,” he said. “I can’t believe that you are younger than I am. You seem so wise. Dear sanity.”
“Dear madness,” she replied.
“Tell me,” Andrews said, “aren’t you afraid of this thing that has happened to us—this falling in love. It’s terribly changing. So strong that I feel that it could fling me at any moment into Heaven or hell.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“And yet for you it’s so much worse,” he said. “It must bring you pain.”
“I’m not afraid of that kind of pain,” she said. “You exaggerate it so. When there is anger I fear the anger—the kind of turmoil in the mind—but not the pain it may inflict.”
“What do you fear most of all?”
“Hate,” she said.
“For years,” Andrews said, “I’ve longed for a peace, a certainty, sanity. I thought I could get it perhaps in music, weariness, a number of things. I have it now. You are all of that. Do you wonder I want you? It would be worse than before if I should lose you now. You remember the parable about the swept room and the devils which entered worse than the first. You must possess me, go on possessing me, never leave me to myself.”
As he talked he felt his exaltation wavering on its height. You’ll never stay the course, his heart mocked him. These are fine sentiments. They are not yours, you coward, drunkard, bully. These are the trumpets preparing for another betrayal. It seemed impossible, watching the peaceful depths of her eyes, to imagine that any man could give her a more permanent happiness than she already possessed within herself. He tried to imagine that astonishingly young wise face growing slowly older in a married tranquillity, lines appearing, the dark hair turning grey, the wisdom deepening. It was a blasphemy, he thought, to imagine for one moment that any man could satisfy a face with such sad eyes. The eyes were not sad, he felt, plunging deeper into a youthful romanticism, for any grief of her own. For herself there was a white tranquillity kindling into laughter round the mouth and on the surface of the eyes—laughter which could be in turn flippant, mocking, deep. It was, and he laughed at himself for sentimentality, a pity for the ways of the world and a too impetuous anxiety of the spirit to loose the body and plead for them before a divine tribunal.
Elizabeth broke his thoughts by rising with a slight shake of her body as though to dispel vague dreams. “Wake up,” she said. “However much you protest I am going to be practical.” She fetched the gun from where it stood against the wall. “Show me how you loaded this,” she said.
Andrews took the gun in his hands, pulled out the cartridge, then looked up struck by suspicion. “Why do you want to know?” he asked. “I’m going to be here to shoot for you. Do you think,” he hesitated, feeling shamefacedly the justice of such a thought, “that I may run away?”
Elizabeth coloured. “I never dreamed of such a thing,” she said angrily. “Listen and believe this if you never believe another word I speak. I trust you absolutely.”
“Thank you,” Andrews said.
“I will tell you,” Elizabeth continued, with hesitation, “what I was thinking. I can’t bear you to imagine that I distrusted you. It was only this—I realised that I was being selfish again, as I was selfish when I sent you to Lewes. There’s little danger for me, but great danger for you. They want your life—they only want to frighten me. If they find me alone ready and armed they will go away, but they will not give up easily if you are here. Don’t interrupt, but listen. Leave me now before it is dusk. The road will be clear. Make your way to London. I can lend you money. We will arrange a meeting place where I can join you in a few days.”
“I won’t leave you,” Andrews said. The temptation had been conquered, he was astonished to find how completely. “Either you must come with me now or we both stay.”
“I won’t go,” she said obstinately. “Besides I’m no strong walker. The two of us would move slowly and be more easily pursued. Better face them within four walls than in the open.” She laughed. “Look at me. I am not stout, muscular, am I? I have always believed myself slim. Don’t disillusion me. Can you imagine me running for miles, scrambling over hedges, wading through ditches? I’d be a hopeless handicap.”
“Well, I stay,” he said with equal obstinacy.
She watched him for a moment with a puzzled frown as if she were trying to devise some new method of appeal. “You are brave, you know,” she said.
“It’s not that,” Andrews replied, “I haven’t the courage to leave you.”
He moved over to
