"It's not so much choice as you think," I said.
"There's always a choice."
"No," I said.
He scrutinised my face.
"I can't live without her-I can't work. She's all mixed up with
this-and everything. And besides, there's things you can't
understand. There's feelings you've never felt… You don't
understand how much we've been to one another."
Britten frowned and thought.
"Some things one's GOT to do," he threw out.
"Some things one can't do."
"These infernal institutions-"
"Some one must begin," I said.
He shook his head. "Not YOU," he said. "No!"
He stretched out his hands on the desk before him, and spoke again.
"Remington," he said, "I've thought of this business day and night
too. It matters to me. It matters immensely to me. In a way-it's
a thing one doesn't often say to a man-I've loved you. I'm the
sort of man who leads a narrow life… But you've been
something fine and good for me, since that time, do you remember?
when we talked about Mecca together."
I nodded.
"Yes. And you'll always be something fine and good for me anyhow.
I know things about you,-qualities-no mere act can destroy them..
.. Well, I can tell you, you're doing wrong. You're going on now
like a man who is hypnotised and can't turn round. You're piling
wrong on wrong. It was wrong for you two people ever to be lovers."
He paused.
"It gripped us hard," I said.
"Yes!-but in your position! And hers! It was vile!"
"You've not been tempted."
"How do you know? Anyhow-having done that, you ought to have stood
the consequences and thought of other people. You could have ended
it at the first pause for reflection. You didn't. You blundered
again. You kept on. You owed a certain secrecy to all of us! You
didn't keep it. You were careless. You made things worse. This
engagement and this publicity!-Damn it, Remington!"
"I know," I said, with smarting eyes. "Damn it! with all my heart!
It came of trying to patch… You CAN'T patch."
"And now, as I care for anything under heaven, Remington, you two
ought to stand these last consequences-and part. You ought to
part. Other people have to stand things! Other people have to
part. You ought to. You say-what do you say? It's loss of so
much life to lose each other. So is losing a hand or a leg. But
it's what you've incurred. Amputate. Take your punishment-After
all, you chose it."
"Oh, damn!" I said, standing up and going to the window.
"Damn by all means. I never knew a topic so full of justifiable
damns. But you two did choose it. You ought to stick to your
undertaking."
I turned upon him with a snarl in my voice. "My dear Britten!" I
cried. "Don't I KNOW I'm doing wrong? Aren't I in a net? Suppose
I don't go! Is there any right in that? Do you think we're going
to be much to ourselves or any one after this parting? I've been
thinking all last night of this business, trying it over and over
again from the beginning. How was it we went wrong? Since I came
back from America-I grant you THAT-but SINCE, there's never been a
step that wasn't forced, that hadn't as much right in it or more, as
wrong. You talk as though I was a thing of steel that could bend
this way or that and never change. You talk as though Isabel was a
cat one could give to any kind of owner… We two are things
that change and grow and alter all the time. We're-so interwoven
that being parted now will leave us just misshapen cripples…
You don't know the motives, you don't know the rush and feel of
things, you don't know how it was with us, and how it is with us.
You don't know the hunger for the mere sight of one another; you
don't know anything."
Britten looked at his finger-nails closely. His red face puckered
to a wry frown. "Haven't we all at times wanted the world put
back?" he grunted, and looked hard and close at one particular nail.
There was a long pause.
"I want her," I said, "and I'm going to have her. I'm too tired for
balancing the right or wrong of it any more. You can't separate
them. I saw her yesterday… She's-ill… I'd take her
now, if death were just outside the door waiting for us."
"Torture?"
I thought. "Yes."
"For her?"
"There isn't," I said.
"If there was?"
I made no answer.
"It's blind Want. And there's nothing ever been put into you to
stand against it. What are you going to do with the rest of your
lives?"
"No end of things."
"Nothing."
"I don't believe you are right," I said. "I believe we can save
something-"
Britten shook his head. "Some scraps of salvage won't excuse you,"
he said.
His indignation rose. "In the middle of life!" he said. "No man
has a right to take his hand from the plough!"
He leant forward on his desk and opened an argumentative palm. "You
know, Remington," he said, "and I know, that if this could be fended
off for six months-if you could be clapped in prison, or got out of
the way somehow,-until this marriage was all over and settled down
for a year, say-you know then you two could meet, curious, happy,
as friends. Saved! You KNOW it."
I turned and stared at him. "You're wrong, Britten," I said. "And
does it matter if we could?"
I found that in talking to him I could frame the apologetics I had
not been able to find for myselfalone.
"Iam certain of one thing, Britten. It is our duty not to hush up
this scandal."
He raised his eyebrows. I perceived now the element of absurdity in
me, but at the time I was as serious as a man who is burning.
"It's our duty," I went on, "to smash now openly in the sight of
every one. Yes! I've got that as clean and plain-as prison
whitewash. Iam convinced that we have got to be public to the
uttermost now-I mean it-until every corner of our world knows this
story, knows it fully, adds it to the Parnell story and the Ashton