He was not satisfied with the words. Moreover, they did not express the truth. For a brief moment, yes, they were one, he and she, and at that instant he thought of love. But it was only for a moment. When it was over, and inevitably it was over, they were separate again, he and she. His penis, shrinking, was symbolic of his whole being. He shrank away from her. He had given what he had to give. And she, too, had given what she had to give. And what was this except a momentary spasm of delight? And then what? Nothing, except perhaps a relief, also a matter of moments, a few hours, no more—for there the desire was, back again, always—inevitable and stronger, perhaps, even than before.
“Make the most of your age, my young lover,” she had said one day almost wistfully.
“Why do you say that?” he had demanded.
“Because even desire doesn’t last,” she had replied. “It becomes habit, and then—well, it’s only habit. That’s why I like my lovers young.”
“Lovers?” he had inquired.
“And are you not my lover?” she said, laughing.
He considered this thoughtfully and she waited, watching his face with a teasing smile.
“I am not sure I know what love is,” he said at last.
She opened her eyes wide. “Then you give a very good imitation of it!”
“No,” he said slowly, still thinking, “it’s not imitation, because I don’t really love you. In a way, it’s more like loving myself—or loving the opportunity you give me of loving myself. Perhaps that’s all I give you, too.”
For she had made it a fair exchange. She had taught him how to exchange delight, an exchange he had not understood at first until she revealed to him the secrets of her own body and made them his, until he understood the fulfillments of mutuality. Ah yes, she had taught him very much. But when it was over, each time now, there was no more to learn. They returned to what they had been before, two separate beings—himself, herself. And was this all there was to love? Was separateness inevitable and eternal between human beings? Then what was the use of love if it was only endless physical repetition? Was there no more?
“What are you thinking?” she demanded.
He looked at her. They were here in her room afterward, long after midnight. She was lying on the white satin canopied bed beside him, naked.
“What does this mean to you?” he asked in reply.
She put up her arms and drew his head to her warm breasts.
“It keeps me young,” she said.
IT WAS A SIMPLE STATEMENT, simply made, and with it she had given him her lovely smile. At the moment it had seemed no more. But he woke before dawn, alone in his own room. The moonlight had wakened him and, as though that cold light illumined his mind, the full enormity of what she had said revealed itself to him. His mother was right. He was being used. He pondered upon this truth. Lady Mary needed a male body to stimulate and satisfy her own need. He was young, physically he was in the full fresh vigor of his sexual manhood. Into that narrow passage of her body his strong thrust excited, exalted, and satisfied her. That was all he was to her, an instrument of gratification. He was used as a machine might be used and was he not more than a machine? Was he not also spirit?
Yet let him be just a machine, if this was what she wished. Did he in turn demand more of her? He was fastidious in his own way, nevertheless. He could never have lent the use of his body, of which he was proud, if not indeed even somewhat vain, to a mere Ruthie, any more than he had been able to accept the strange caresses of Donald Sharpe. He did not love Lady Mary, but her beauty charmed him—her beauty and her breeding. In a way, he supposed, it was a sort of love. But was there anything lasting, or even meaningful for him about such love? Still, perhaps, it was more than she felt for him. She had spoken only of herself, and for such ends, that he felt at this lonely moment degraded and therefore outraged. He would not be used. He would not have his body used. His body was his own possession—solely his own. And then he had made up his mind. It was time for him to move on his way. Beyond this castle the whole world still waited. It was the world to which he belonged. All people were his people. No one woman was his only woman, no one man his only friend. He was going his own way, where he did not know, but onward. His world was in readiness somewhere beyond this castle.
THE FAREWELL WAS EASY, AFTER ALL. He had dreaded it, though only a little because he was resolute, and yet somewhat because in his own way he was also tender of heart. She had been kind, in her English, offhand fashion, and he was not sure whether after all she had an attachment. Even though she might replace him, undoubtedly would replace him in time, still a vague sort of fondness held them lightly together. He felt it in himself. She was lovely in her cool fashion, delicate even in her passion—no, “delicate” was not the word. She could be abandoned but always with taste; if the words were not too contradictory. She could not offend. Her very frankness was never offensive. Her clarity of expressed desire was pure.
Then when, he had pondered, was the suitable hour for the farewell? Now that he had decided upon it, he was impatient for it to be over. One night he packed his bags, the third night after the decision. He had avoided going to her room, and so delicate was her perception that she had seemed also indifferent to him. By this very indifference, studied and graceful, he knew she was preparing herself for the unavoidable separation. The next morning, his bags packed and breakfast over, although they had lingered at the breakfast table that had been laid for them outside on the terrace, it being a perfect early spring morning, he began, not abruptly, but as though they had spoken before of his departure.
“I shall never be able to thank you enough,” he said.
“When are you going?” she asked.
“Today,” he said.
“And where?” she asked. She sipped her coffee and did not look at him.
“To London and then to France, and then southward across Italy and perhaps even to India. I shan’t stay anywhere—as I have stayed here.”
“Ah, you’ll like India,” she said almost indifferently. Still she did not look at him.
“What shall I find there?” he asked.
“Whatever it is you are looking for,” she said. She touched a bell and the butler appeared.
“Have a car ready to take Mr. Colfax to the station at once. He’ll catch a train for London.”
“Yes, madam,” the butler said, and disappeared.
Mr. Colfax! She had never called him that before and he looked at her, his eyebrows lifted in question.
“Aren’t you going?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “But—”
She rose from the table. “I’m not sending you away,” she continued. “It’s only that I’ve learned that if something is over, it’s better to have it over at once.”
“Yes,” he said.
He rose too, and they stood facing each other, he taller than she. Yonder in the rose garden where a fountain played, a bird sang three clear notes, a cadence, and stopped abruptly.