The sense of the nearness of the end broke down the numbness which held him.
‘Elizabeth! It’s so utterly absurd. It’s just–chucking everything away!’
She was silent for a moment.
‘Bill, dear, I haven’t said anything about it before but don’t you see that there’s my side to be considered too? I only showed you that you could never possibly know that I loved you. How am I to know that you really love me?’
He had moved a step towards her. He drew back, chilled.
‘I can’t do more than tell you,’ he said.
‘You can’t. And there you have put in two words just what I’ve been trying to make clear all the time. Don’t you see that that’s the terrible thing about life, that nobody can do more than tell anybody anything? Life’s nothing but words, words, words; and how are we to know when words are true? How am I to know that you didn’t ask me to marry you out of sheer pity and an exaggerated sense of justice?’
He stared at her.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is absolutely ridiculous!’
‘Why? Look at it as I should look at it later on, when whatever it is inside me that tell me it’s ridiculous now had died. Just at this moment, while we’re talking here, there’s something stronger than reason which tells me you really do love me. But can’t you understand that that won’t last? It’s like a candle burning on a rock with the tide coming up all round it. It’s burning brightly enough now, and we can see the truth by the light of it. But the tide will put it out, and then we shall have nothing left to see by. There’s a great black sea of suspicion and doubt creeping up to swamp the little spark of intuition inside us.
‘I will tell you what would happen to me if I didn’t send you away. Remember I heard what that girl was saying last night. Remember that you hated the thought of depriving me of Uncle Ira’s money so much that your first act was to try to get me to accept half of it. The quixotic thing is the first that it occurs to you to do, because you’re like that, because you’re the straightest, whitest man I’ve ever known or shall know. Could anything be more likely, looking at it as I should later on, than that you should have hit on the idea of marrying me as the only way of undoing the wrong you thought you had done me? I’ve been foolish about obligations all my life. I’ve a sort of morbid pride that hates the thought of owing anything to anybody, of getting anything that I have not earned. By and by, if I were to marry you, a little rotten speck of doubt would begin to eat its way farther and farther into me. It would be the same with you. We should react on each other. We should be watching each other, testing each other, trying each other out all the time. It would be horrible, horrible!’
He started to speak; then, borne down by the hopelessness of it, stopped. Elizabeth stood up. They did not look at each other. He strapped the suitcase and picked it up. The end of all things was at hand.
‘Better to end it all cleanly, Bill,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘It will hurt less.’
He did not speak.
‘I’ll come down to the gate with you.’
They walked in silence down the drive. The air was heavy with contentment. He hummed a tune.
‘Good-bye, Bill, dear.’
He took her hand dully.
‘Good-bye,’ he said.
Elizabeth stood at the gate, watching. He swung down the road with long strides. At the bend he turned and for a moment stood there, as if waiting for her to make some sign. Then he fell into his stride again and was gone. Elizabeth leaned on the gate. Her face was twisted, and she clutched the warm wood as if it gave her strength.
The grounds were very empty. The spirit of loneliness brooded on them. Elizabeth walked slowly back to the house. Nutty was coming towards her from the orchard.